On Oaks and Reeds
by chrusotoxos
Summary: The oak resists the strongest wind unyelding, but is bound to break in a storm. The reed bends easily, but is never broken. Hermione Granger liked oaks best, but that was before she met her feared Potions Master under a new light...A Book 7 adventure.
1. Chapter 1

**On Oaks and Reeds **

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 1 – A Troubled Night**

Hermione couldn't sleep: her room in Grimmauld Palace was too quiet without Ginny. Furthermore, the whole floor was empty, as Harry was still at his relatives' house and Ron and the twins at the Burrow. Alone in the darkness, Hermione found she was freaking out.

"Stop being stupid," she said aloud to herself. "Lupin and Tonks are here. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh, but there is," was the whispered answer.

Hermione sat up in her bed with a jolt, grabbing her wand.

"_Lumos_," she said.

The portrait hung on the opposite wall, which had been empty all evening, had been suddenly filled with one of the unsavoury Black ancestors – a man in his fifties sporting elegant, blood-red robes.

"Oh, it's you," sighed Hermione. She'd seen him before, but he'd never talked to her.

"Don't be impertinent, you little Mudblood," the portrait shot back, angered. "It's not 'just me' – I'm Octavius Fibrillus Black, Grand Sorcerer of"

"Ok, I'm sorry," yawned Hermione, overlooking the insult. "But what did you say about a danger in here? Is it just the house or"

"For you, it may very well be 'just the house', as you put it. We were never friendly to your kind. But as it happens, a furious argument is going on downstairs – in fact, I had hoped that you could go and find out what the row is about – I can't hear properly from Agrippina's portrait, and there isn't any canvas in the kitchen."

"A row?" asked Hermione, suddenly curious. "Who's rowing?"

A few days after Dumbledore's death, Lupin had finally decided to admit Tonks into his life and since they'd been close to the point of elicit disgust from the onlookers. Hermione sincerely doubted they would quarrel about something in the near future – they were too engrossed in each other.

"Two men," said Octavius Black. "The werewolf and one I do not recognize."

_This must be some Order business_, thought Hermione. Despite having turned seventeen, she was not admitted to their meetings, and was very annoyed by this blatant injustice. Now it seemed she had a chance to discover something of their plans…it was well past midnight…they thought she was asleep…

"Turn round," she said absently to the portrait. "I'm going to get dressed."

Octavius Fibrillus Black, Grand Sorcerer, obeyed with a tutting sound, and Hermione crept out of her bed and put her jeans on. _This should be enough_, she thought vaguely, as she was already wearing her sleeping t-shirt. Stuffing her wand in the back pocket of her pants, she padded barefoot to the door and opened it carefully.

The corridor was empty, but she could hear a faint noise coming from the basement.

She threaded carefully downstairs, and nearly jumped when the newly Transfigurated portrait of Sirius' mother, Agrippina Black, cooed at her through the darkness.

"Out of bed so late? Couldn't sleep, poor darling? Oh! But you're barefoot! You'll catch a cold, sweetie!"

Hermione squinted at the canvas through the dark entrance hall. Losing any hope to detach it from the wall, Moody and Professor McGonagall had transfigured it into a depiction of Mrs. Black as an old woman, and there she was, as she'd been in real life – joyful and completely senile. The portrait had proved even more of a nuisance this way, calling on everyone, mistaking the names of people she saw every day, insisting that they should stop and gossip, knitting sweaters for her dead sons as she talked and talked about nothing at all.

"It's okay, Mrs. Black," whispered Hermione, not wanting to alert Lupin of her presence.

"Oh, no it's not!" gushed the portrait. "Maybe you had a nightmare? But you can tell auntie Agrippina, now, can't you?"

"Mrs. Black," said Hermione firmly, "I did not have a nightmare. I'm on my way for a cup of tea."

"Tea! How sweet! A young woman such as yourself drinking her tea, as it was in the old days. You know, my Regulus detested tea. He used to have a plain glass of water instead and"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Black, but I'm very tired. Could we chat tomorrow?" pleaded Hermione, edging towards the door leading to the basement.

"But of course! Off you go, and be careful not to bump into something, you never know. My uncle Patricius, once…"

Hermione smiled vaguely at her and headed for the stairs. The quarrelling voices were louder now, though the quarrel itself seemed to have lost its venom. Hermione recognized easily Lupin's soft voice, and it took her just a moment to identify the second speaker as Kingsley Shacklebolt – he stopped rarely to Grimmauld Palace, and she was not unhappy about it – there was something about him she didn't like.

"And once he's here, how do you intend to proceed?"

This was Lupin's voice, and it sounded weary and resigned.

"The usual," said Shacklebolt, in a business-like tone. "Small talk…"

"Which won't work on him."

"…Veritaserum – I nicked a vial from the Ministry…"

"He surely thought of an antidote, some of them take months to wear out."

"…UQM."

"UQM?"

Lupin's voice was shocked, and Hermione, sitting on the stairs, the coldness and dampness of the old stone sinking into her body, thought hard. Whom were they talking about? And what did UQM stand for? She'd made a list of the most used acronyms for an Arithmancy essay, but she was sure she hadn't read about that one.

"It's a Ministry-approved procedure, in particular circumstances."

"Is it…is it still?"

"Scrimgeour re-integrated it into the Code. One of his first acts of office."

"Blimey. He kept that quiet."

"Well, it's not like last time. Not yet. But that's the very point – we don't want it to be like last time. We want to be prepared."

"And you think you'll be prepared thanks to UQM? You don't know what you're talking about!"

Hermione recoiled slightly. She'd never heard Lupin shout at someone before. Remus Lupin was a kind and quiet person – he would never seek a fight, or openly defy someone. Harry though it was just the way he was, but Hermione rather thought he was scared about hurting someone – as a werewolf, he was stronger than most people.

"I am an Auror. I have experience in this," said Shacklebolt, rather coldly.

"Have you ever performed it yourself?"

"No, but"

"Then you don't know what this is about, and you won't do it in this house."

"It's Harry's house, and this is a decision that the Order should take. You represent nobody."

Whereas Lupin sounded deeply agitated, Shacklebolt's voice was growing colder any minute.

"Harry won't be informed about this until the matter is clearer."

"He's not a child."

"It's not a question of being a child, it's a question of childishness."

There was an agonizing silence and Hermione, feeling that the discussion was coming to an end, stood up.

"Lupin," said Shacklebolt in the end, and Hermione heard the noise of a chair being pushed back – she quickly ran up the stairs, passing in front of Mrs. Black's portrait – "How was your tea, darling? I hope you didn't choose a full blend this late at night." – up to the second floor – in no time she was in her room, closing the door behind her. She stood against it for a moment, breathing hard and clutching a stitch in her side. What had this been about?

"Well? What was that about?" said a voice, echoing her own thoughts, and she jumped.

"Don't _do_ that. And anyway, I have no idea," she said to Octavius Black. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to sleep for a while."

The portrait tutted again and disappeared from his frame.

Hermione took off her clothes mechanically and crawled into her bed, drawing the bedcovers up to her chin. She'd meant to think about what she'd overheard, but she fell asleep almost immediately.

Miles away, the boy called Harry Potter, who, in Lupin's opinion, was too childish to decide about the appropriateness of UQM, was staring out of the window.

It was very late; Harry could hear Dudley snore loudly next door, and aunt Petunia tossing and turning in her bed. She hadn't slept well for days, now, and judging from her face at breakfast, she often didn't sleep at all. Not that Harry cared. He was mildly curious, though, about her worries. After all, he would be gone forever in two days. She should be happy about it.

Harry glanced at the crumpled parchment in his right hand, than raised his eyes to the window again. All the houses were dark. The streetlights, on the other hand, were so bright Harry felt sick if he looked too long at them. He strongly suspected that the Order might have improved the Muggle bulbs with a Strengthening Charm.

He was finally leaving Privet Drive forever, but he felt strangely empty about it. He certainly wasn't feeling the wild joy he had anticipated so many times. In fact, he was even wondering what would have happened if Hogwarts' letters had never been delivered; if Hagrid had never come after him. He would surely be working by now, he thought. The Dursleys would never have paid for higher education. Maybe he would have been a policeman. Or a salesman of sorts. Or a gardener. He liked Professor Sprouts' classes well enough. He would have sold some flowers to a pretty girl – Ginny's face appeared on the surface of his thoughts, and he squashed it down. Thinking about her was way too painful.

_Stop it_, Harry thought furiously. _I am here now. I know what I must do._

He spread out the paper in his hand and re-read it at the light of the streetlamps.

_Fleur Delacour and Bill Weasley_

_Are happy to invite you to their wedding, which will take place at the Burrow on August 3__rd_

– was written in an ornate writing. Two white doves were circling the names, a small red heart glowering between them. Behind the parchment was a scribbled note from Ron, informing him that the Order would most likely pick him up on the night of July 31st – they couldn't afford to let him in his relatives' house unprotected.

It was midnight. This meant a last whole day with the Dursley.

One of the doves on the wedding invitation hooted softly, making Harry start.

Feeling that he'd brooded long enough – as Hagrid had said, the future would come whatever one did about it – Harry lied down on the bed, fully clothed, and put his glasses on the floor, over the battered cover of _Quidditch through the Ages_.


	2. Chapter 2

**On Oaks and Reeds **

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 2 – News **

As she'd forgot to close the curtains, Hermione awoke at dawn. She'd always been a morning person, and her mind was instantly awake: all the details of Lupin's and Shacklebolt's conversation sprang into her brain. She wanted to owl Harry, but was unsure on how to write down the message safely. Furthermore, they would meet at the Burrow the very next day.

After a quick shower, she'd decided to forget about Harry and focussing instead on delivering Kreacher's possessions to him as she'd intended to do – _The poor elf!_ she thought. He'd been sent to Hogwarts so quickly, and she'd heard him complain more than once about losing every token of his beloved mistress.

Harry and Ron didn't approve of her kindness, but she didn't care. It wasn't Kreacher's fault if he'd betrayed the Order. What else was he supposed to do? His nature bound him to the Malfoys as well; he'd been forced into his wickedness.

Wizards truly didn't have any notion of ethics, she thought angrily as she headed for the kitchen.

As she passed the threshold of the cavernous room she was startled, and a little embarrassed, to see that Lupin was already there, pouring himself a steaming cup of coffee. He looked very tired.

"Good morning, Hermione," he said, without raising his eyes from the parchment he was quickly scanning.

"Good morning," she said. "Is Tonks up as well?"

Lupin blushed faintly, but his voice was quite steady.

"No. She was back very late last night, and she's having a bit of a lie-in."

"Did everything go well?" asked Hermione automatically as she magically filled a teapot of steaming jasmine tea. She knew he wouldn't tell her what Tonks' mission had been like, but she hoped that everyone was all right.

"Yes," said Lupin, non committedly. "Would you like some muffins?"

Hermione nodded and sat down in front of him, taking a blueberry muffin from the plate Lupin had pushed towards her.

"Delicious," she said, munching it. "Where did you find them?"

"Molly sent them over. I'm afraid she doesn't trust Tonks' cooking skills very much."

"Well, she's wrong," said Hermione, now sipping her tea. "The spinach soufflé she made last night was wonderful. As was your pudding, by the way."

"Thank you. A recipe of my mum. So, what do you think about the quarrel you overheard last night?"

Hermione choked on her tea.

"You…you know?" she said.

"Hermione, I am a werewolf. I could smell you the moment you went out of your room."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You have a pleasant smell."

Hermione blushed, but appreciated the joke. It meant that Lupin was not angry, and that she was free to ask some questions.

"Well, I didn't understand much of it. I remember that you were talking about Scrimgeour, and what a job as an Auror involves. You were against using UQM, but I don't know what it is."

Lupin smiled.

"You truly have a magnificent memory. Ever thought about being a Glottic?"

Glottics, Hermione knew, were the equivalent of Muggle interpreters. The most skilled of them knew even non human languages – Gobledegook and Mermish and the secret Centaurs' speech. Languages couldn't be learned by magic, and thus Glottism was a very difficult and respected course of studies. She was proud that Lupin had paid her such a compliment.

"No. But I haven't given much thought about next year, really."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," said Lupin, pouring himself a second cup of coffee, "is a fully trained Auror. Even if he's a member of the Order, his loyalty remains to the Academy and what he has learned there."

Hermione sat on the brink of her chair, listening eagerly. The Aurors' Academy was a very secretive place – very few knew how it worked and what was taught there.

"As Kingsley knows – as lesser people like you and I may quickly grasp," he said, smiling at Hermione, "catching a Dark wizard is not enough. It is the valuable information he possesses that we must make our own. And there is no effective way to do this."

"Veritaserum" started Hermione, but Lupin interrupted her.

"Is not always effective. Like almost every potion, it has antidotes. A prudent wizard takes all sorts of antidotes every day, to ensure some protection from the darkest poisons. And Veritaserum is, after all, a poison."

Hermione wondered if Dumbledore had ever known that Snape had threatened Harry with it. Maybe if she had told him…but it'd probably been an empty threat…

"After all the primary methods – basically potions, spells, threats and bribing – have been tried and proven unsuccessful, the Auror has the possibility to resort to UQM. Unconventional Questioning Methods."

Hermione gulped at the sudden seriousness of Lupin's voice.

"You mean…torture?"

"I do."

Lupin stood up brusquely and went to the antiquated wizardry fridge that was placed beside the huge, stony sink.

"Molly also sent…" he said, rummaging into it, "…home-made chocolate ice-cream. It's a bit early for ice-cream – I can transfigure it to chocolate mousse. I don't know about you," he continued, coming back to the table with a large bowl in his hands, "but these subjects make me uncomfortable. This may help."

He summoned two smaller bowls and two spoons, then passed his wand twice over Mrs. Weasley's ice-cream. It instantly changed into a soft mousse. He waited for Hermione to take a small portion of it before continuing his speech.

"Muggle torture works well enough, from what I read in their papers, but nothing is more effective than the Cruciatus spell. A trained Auror has the skill to bring his victim nearly to madness – if you know where to stop, the subject will be so debilitated he'll say anything."

"And if you don't stop?"

"The subject goes mad. And there is no possible recovery."

Hermione felt nauseous.

"Eat up."

Lupin was looking very concerned, and Hermione forced herself to put a spoonful of mousse into her mouth. It felt strange so early in the day, with the strong taste of jasmine tea still on her tongue, but it helped.

"UQM was first introduced nineteen years ago, but Scrimgeour has apparently approved a law to re-instate it. I can't say I approve. It is very risky, and the subject may not possess meaningful information. Voldemort is very careful about what he tells his servants."

"Does…does every Auror learn how to do this?" Hermione asked, the chocolate melting in her mouth.

"No. And even those who learn may choose not to use it. Moody did once, I think. Only once. And sincerely, I don't think that Shacklebolt has the skill to do it properly – if you forgive my choice of words – I mean, there is no 'proper' way to torture a fellow human being."

"Whom did you catch?" asked Hermione suddenly, a hollow feeling in her stomach.

"Severus," said Lupin. His eyes were steely, and he didn't look at her.

HHH

When Harry entered the kitchen at seven thirty, he found the three Dursleys already dressed and ready to leave. Uncle Vernon stormed out to start the car, and he was left to stare at Dudley and aunt Petunia, who bore the signs of having recently cried.

"What's the matter?" Harry asked. "Where are you going?"

"To the hospital," said aunt Petunia briskly. "We need a blood transfusion."

"What?"

Aunt Petunia took Dudley's arm, clutching at him.

"What do you think will happen when you're gone? They'll be after us, and none of your so-called friends will be here to protect us."

Harry blinked. He had not spared a single thought to what would have happened to the Dursleys after his departure – but surely they were right. Voldemort was bound to come for them, at the very least to search the house and interrogate Harry's only family on his past and present projects. And it was probably true, Harry thought, that the Order didn't have men to spare for them.

"They probably would, but they are very few. We are at war."

Dudley looked at his feet. 'War' was a word connected to video-games for him, but the sudden strength of his mother's hand on his arm kept him connected to the imminent danger.

"But why a blood transfusion?" asked Harry, breaking the silence.

"That…policeman…suggested it. He came here last week – you were asleep – and said that we had to move, go away from the country," aunt Petunia's voice became a terrified whisper. "That they could track our blood, and thus we had to alter it somehow – your kind doesn't know about transferring blood from one person to another – it should be enough."

That was true. Hermione's voice sprang into Harry's mind at once : _Blood-refilling charms do not change the magical properties of one's blood, because the charm acts by multiplying a quantity of the same blood…_

"Hang on," he said. "What policeman?"

"The scarred one," said aunt Petunia.

"Alastor Moody," said Dudley. "What happened to his face?"

Harry was suddenly furious. No news from the Order for a fortnight – "security measures" – and Moody popping in Privet Drive and talking to his Muggle relatives without even stop to say hi. Of his identity there was no doubt: the wards on the house wouldn't allow a Death-Eater to enter it.

"Voldemort happened to his face," he said harshly, though this wasn't strictly true. "And? What will you do?"

"We have arranged for a Flat-Exchange," said aunt Petunia. At the blank look on Harry's face, she added "There are agencies arranging this sort of business. We'll move to India, where one of Vernon's partners lives, and an Indian family will come to live in our house."

She sniffed, looking lovingly at the immaculate entrance all, whose walls were completely filled with Dudley's baby-pictures.

"Let's hope they don' wreck it."

"But," said Harry, aghast. "What about those people? Won't they be in danger? Living here?"

"They should be grateful to have the opportunity of living in a proper and civilised country for a while," said aunt Petunia dismissively. "And you know how coloured people are – they are accustomed to violence anyway."

Harry was disgusted. He'd almost felt sorry for the Dursleys, but now he understood that it wasn't worth it.

"And how long will you be gone?" he asked coldly.

"Until your Ministry puts an end to this situation," said uncle Vernon, opening the front door and making aunt Petunia jump. "That man said it couldn't take more than one year. Now come, dear, we're late already."

Aunt Petunia shot a last angry glance at Harry and disappeared through the door, followed by Dudley.

"You don't get to touch, eat, move or change anything at all until we're back," said uncle Vernon fiercely, his fat hand on the door-knob.

Before Harry could say anything to this, uncle Vernon closed the door on his face and locked it.

HHH

"Professor Snape?" said Hermione, her eyes huge on her scared face.

"Let's not discuss the matter further," said Lupin. "I've said too much already."

"But"

"Not now," said Lupin, a warning in his voice.

Only a few seconds later, Hermione heard it as well – step-_clunk_, step-_clunk_ – Mad-Eye Moody was stepping through the upstairs hall. She heard him chat with Mrs. Black's portrait, who adored him for some reason, and then coming heavily downstairs.

"Good morning," he said, entering the kitchen. "Molly said she sent some muffins – oh, excellent!"

He had spotted the silver Black plate where Lupin had put Mrs. Weasley's sweets.

"Mrs. Granger," he said, as he took a muffin and sniffed it with what remained of his nose.

Hermione nodded at him and thought that he seemed in a very good mood, a most un-Moody occurrence. Was he one of the ones who'd caught Snape the previous night?

As Moody and Lupin chatted away about Tonks and Bill's wedding, Hermione stared into space. If she was honest, she was relieved that Snape had been caught. She and Luna had been alone with him just minutes before Snape had killed Dumbledore – the recollection had been haunting her all the past fortnight. She kept having nightmares about it – in them, they saw Snape killing Professor Flitwick, and then turning on them, a mad glint in his eyes…

"It appears we have a problem, Miss Granger," said Moody, cutting in into her thoughts.

"Sir?" she said, startled.

"It seems that Lupin here told you about Snape."

Lupin stared at his knees, looking uncomfortable, but Moody sat down slowly beside him, unconcerned by his uneasiness.

"No harm done. You brats would have found out all to soon anyway."

"We simply wish to help the Order, sir," said Hermione, her cheeks flushed.

"Do you?" said Moody, his magical eye checking the empty staircase behind him. "Then why don't you tell us your opinion about him? Go on."

"I'm glad he's been caught, sir," said Hermione, obediently.

"That wasn't what I wanted to hear. I'm concerned about a way to interrogate him without losing his sharp mind – focus, girl!"

"So you won't…you won't use UQM on him, sir?" said Hermione, relieved. The very idea of Order members killing or torturing people revolted her.

"This will probably be decided by a vote. If there is a majority, I'll do it."

"Kingsley"

"Is a kid. Wouldn't know where to start."

Hermione was confused.

"What are you asking me, exactly?" she asked, closing her fingers on her cold tea-cup.

"You've seen him four hours a week for six years – this is more we can say. I'd like to interrogate him and resort to other methods as a last possibility, but I'll need to know how to make him talk."

Hermione was glad to see that Professor Dumbledore's death hadn't changed Moody's character. _He doesn't kill when he can help it_, this is what Sirius had said about him. That said, she was very uncertain about his request. What did she know about Snape? He was a good teacher, but very short-tempered and unable to help the weakest students. He didn't dance at school balls. He never ate breakfast in the Great Hall. He always wore black. Surely the Order didn't need this kind of information. She racked her brain.

"You'll never make him talk. Not even you, Alastor," Lupin was saying, pouring himself the third cup of coffee of the morning. "He's a superb Occlumens, he'll see right through any tricky question you can think of."

"I could make him angry," said Moody, as though they were discussing golf tactics.

"He never gets angry. He's too skilled for that."

"This isn't exactly true," said Hermione at once. "Harry uses to enrage him."

"He does?" asked Lupin, surprised. "How?"

"I don't think he does it on purpose. It just happens."

"Tell us about it," said Moody, attacking a second muffin.

"Well," said Hermione, trying to recollect hat she knew. "There was the time we saved Sirius –Snape was demented about it – he came into the Infirmary shouting that it'd been Harry's fault."

"Mmh," said Moody thoughtfully. "That was Black enraging him, in a way."

"Sirius was always very good at that," smiled Lupin reminiscently.

"Good at what?" asked Tonks, entering the kitchen in her colourful pyjamas, her hair the vividest pink. "Hi Rem," she gushed, planting a kiss on Lupin's cheek.

"If you two can't be decent, you'd better go away," said Moody sternly.

Tonks inflamed at once.

"It was just a kiss, Mad-Eye! You're the one to talk, creeping about with that eye, washing it in the sink and looking through people's clothes!"

"I most certainly don't look through people's clothes!" protested Moody indignantly.

"Ok, so what am I wearing now?"

Moody blushed and didn't answer.

"Back to business!" he roared, covering Tonks' laughter and Lupin's spluttering. "Miss Granger, do you remember anything else?"

"Well, they had a huge row last year. It was when Snape stopped to teach him Occlumency. Harry told me he was downright scary, throwing jars at him and all – but he never told him what they were rowing about."

"I know," said Lupin. "Harry had seen an old memory of James tormenting Severus – our fifth year."

"Damned seventies again. Very little I can use," brooded Moody.

Hermione looked miserable – she hated not being of use. Looking absently at Tonks, who was now heating the stove the Muggle way to prepare some tea, she tried to think back. When had Snape been angry? Of course, he was irritated most of the time…he'd been scared after the Sectumsempra curse on Malfoy…but, after all, he'd made an Unbreakable Vow…

"Wait," she said. "As he was getting away after…the night Dumbledore died, Harry told me that they quarrelled – Harry called him a coward, and Snape actually came back to shout at him."

"He came back?" asked Lupin incredulously. "Half the Order was chasing them down to the grounds! He could have been caught!"

"Harry said he was furious."

"Now here we've found something. Good girl. I'll ask Harry for this memory, and then we'll see."

Moody pushed his chair back.

"Lupin, girls, beg your pardon but I'll be off now. I told Minerva I'd go to Hogwarts to inform her of last night's…events."

"Why don't you come for dinner, Mad-Eye? I'l be wearing the same thing under my evening robes."

Moody, who was halfway up the stairs, didn't bother to answer. As soon as he was out of earshot, Lupin grabbed Tonks' wrist.

"Why do you annoy him so?"

"He's so old-fashioned!" Tonks pouted. "And I don't like that eye at all – how could the Healers give it to him?"

"Standard procedure mentions the application of See-Through Eyes in special circumstances," said Hermione, and they both jumped – they must have forgotten she was there. Seeing their guilty faces, she stifled a grin and stood up, Vanishing her dirty cup with a wave of her wand. "I'll go back to my room – stuff to do," she said vaguely.

As she exited the kitchen, she heard Lupin's voice.

"So, what the heck are you wearing?"

"Nothing special. Oh, wait, nothing at all, now I think about it."

At Lupin's strangled gasp, Hermione lost all pretence and fled, blushing furiously.

_If Ron thinks I'm going to walk around commando, he's going to be disappointed_, she thought, as she closed her room's door behind her.

She hadn't thought about Ron for days – she'd been so absorbed in scanning her new books – among them, _Standard Book of Spells, grade seven_ – after all, there was no need to be unprepared, even if she wasn't going back to Hogwarts – that she'd totally forgotten about him and the precarious state of their nearly non-existent relationship.

The truth was, she had some difficulties to understand how Ron's mind worked. He could be very kind and loyal, but he was so thick! And then there had been the Lavender's affair…it was a nuisance to be a girl, she thought. Boys seemed to understand each other so simply. If only she could be Harry for a while, and find out what Ron wanted to-

Hermione stopped in mid-reasoning, her eyes misty, as a new and dangerous idea took form inside her head.

HHH

Minister Scrimgeour, meanwhile, was clutching his Deluxe Waterwizard Quill, his hand shaking with rage.

"How did this happen, Dawlish?" he asked through gritted teeth to the man nervously standing in front of him.

"I don't know, sir," said the mortified Auror. "We got there all right – he'd just disappeared."

"And what did the policemen say?"

"Nothing useful, sir. That they'd never seen the man and they hadn't heard he had been spotted."

"I received a phone call from that Constabulary just one hour ago, and they said they'd caught him!"

"We checked, sir. We checked all the cells."

"Any sign of an Obliviate charm?" asked Scrimgeour, standing up.

"No, sir." Dawlish looked miserable. "The Cursemeter detected one dot seven grades of magic in the place, though."

"And yet, you were unable to determine its source." Scrimgeour turned round, facing the window. London was beautiful in the summer morning light, the windows enflamed by red rayons.

The Auror hung his head.

"You will be removed from this case, Dawlish. Both of you. Shacklebolt will be re-assigned to the Muggle Prime Minister security. As for you," Scrimgeour pressed his right hand to the glass, speaking to his reflection in the window. "You will guard Harry Potter's house in Surrey. He should move later today, and I want you to stay in the neighbourhood, in the case he comes back. I want daily reports on this, Dawlish. Daily."

"Yes, sir."

"You are dismissed."

Scrimgeour heard the door click softly behind him, and he turned round. Dumbledore was dead – McGonagall refused all information on the secret society he'd been leading – Potter had done nothing at all for a fortnight – and meanwhile the Death Eaters had threatened another Muggle mass killing, attempted to kidnap the Muggle Prince Crown and destroyed Ollivander's empty shop.

The Minister sat down, thinking hard. He needed to reorganize his forces. This Snape fiasco was the last of a series of little details not clicking together – there had to be a mole in the Ministry itself – perhaps even into the very Aurors' Academy he was so proud about.

_Next Update : May 9th_


	3. Chapter 3

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 3 – Small Treasures**

Harry Potter wandered aimlessly through the empty house. Now that he knew about the Dursleys' plans, he noticed that everything seemed cleaner than usual. Checking the kitchen cupboard, he saw that the so-called 'good service' had disappeared; aunt Petunia was indeed packing, or hiding away, her best stuff. A few of the omnipresent Dudley's pictures had been peeled off the walls. White shades remained, bringing unpleasant memories to Harry's mind – there had been the one of Dudley's riding his first bicycle, while Harry, not shown in the photo, had stood enviously aside; and there the one of Dudley's graduation from Smeltings, the summer Sirius had died.

Harry was not sorry to see the Dursleys slowly fading from a house he hated, but the missing items here and there spoke clearly of fear and flight. Even the Muggle world, or at least one part of it, was preparing for battle. Of course, some did it by running away – the Dursleys weren't the only ones. Hermione's parents had left the country; and even Queen Elisabeth, her husband and the whole royal family had abandoned Buckingham Palace after Scotland Yard had got wind of 'a well-known group of dangerous terrorists', whose name had not been disclosed to the public, who would soon try to kidnap prince William. As the _Daily Prophet _had reported, the kidnap had indeed taken place, but the prince had been freed and Obliviated after a few minutes by a squadron of Aurors. Rodolphus Lestrange had been seen in the Royal Gardens, but he'd managed to escape. Harry's insides boiled with anger at the very thought.

Harry's eyes were caught by the gleaming television set and he felt a wave of rebellion run through him. He'd never be allowed to watch it on his own. Even though Dudley had, of course, his own television in his room, the one in the sitting room was his property too. Uncle Vernon used it for the evening news; aunt Petunia secretly watched a gossip format of V.I.P.s – Harry had seen the program underlined in the TV Guide – but from 6 am to 11 pm the television belonged to Dudley.

"Don't touch anything," uncle Vernon had said.

Harry turned it on.

A very fat cat appeared on the screen; it was sniffing the camera.

"The domestic cat," a woman speaker was saying in a breathy voice, "is a miniature jewel of nature. His golden eyes, all-seeing in the darkness, his soft, all-pervading fur"

Harry stifled a snort. 'All-pervading fur' all right – just ask Mrs. Figg – her house was stuffed with cat's hair.

As he was considering the idea of breaking out of the house to see her – she may possibly have some news about the Order – the television screen went suddenly pitch black.

"This is a government's announcement. Please pay attention."

The stern voice was followed by a slightly out-of-tune sound.

"Please be careful. A dangerous killer is on the loose."

As Harry stared, oddly fascinated, a black-and-white photograph of Severus Snape filled the screen.

"Any sighting should be immediately reported to the Constabulary closest to your house."

Harry wasn't listening. Snape's face, unnaturally fixed in the Muggle print, seemed out of focus. The photograph Snape wasn't looking at him, but sideways. Wearing his customary black, his thin lips tight, his long, greasy hair shadowing his left cheekbone gave him a dangerous look. You could never have guessed he was a teacher.

Suddenly, Harry was thrown four years in the past. _I don't need _you_ tell me he's bad_, uncle Vernon was saying. _Look at his hair._

Just as unexpectedly as it had appeared, the picture disappeared.

"Your cat may seem unnecessarily cruel when he's toying with a mouse freshly caught. But there is a part of game in every chase, which is essential to the psychological development of your kitten. Therefore, do not reprimand such a behaviour."

Harry stood up abruptly, then sat down again. There was nothing he could do – nowhere he could go. Snape was now his enemy just as Voldemort had always been. Harry longed to see the hated face again, to impress every line of it into his brain. Sirius' announcement had been repeated every hour – there was a good possibility Harry would see Snape again in – he checked his watch – 57 minutes.

HHH

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips so tightly that her mouth seemed to disappear into her face.

"He was my pupil, Alastor."

"I know. But he's also a very bad man, and he's always been, whatever you and Dumbledore have said in the past," said Moody, nodding towards the late Headmaster portrait.

McGonagall turned round to check on him, but he was still asleep. She frowned.

"I must remember to ask Arthur to look into this. It doesn't seem normal that he won't wake up. I don't know how the spell works, but Dippet…or maybe I don't remember properly."

Moody shifted in his chair.

"Minerva, we have a problem and we must solve it."

Dumbledore's office was as peaceful as it'd always been, but a few details here and there spoke louder than any word of Dumbledore's death. Fawkes' perch, a beautifully carved branch in the very middle of the room, seemed out of place without the swan-like bird happily gobbling upon it. The glass case which had previously held Griffyndor's sword was now empty. The sword, under Harry's suggestion, had been moved to a safer place. Most of the mysterious silver instruments had been squashed to a side of the big desk, making place for Ministry memos, plans of buildings, battle strategies, parents' letters.

"Well, don't ask _me_ to solve it," Minerva McGonagall answered wearily. "I don't approve of UQM, and I certainly won't vote in favour of performing them on a former Hogwarts teacher. Dumbledore would surely agree."

Mad-Eye Moody had had a very bad night, and the morning, so far, didn't seem any better.

"Minerva…"

"I know, but it's still wrong." She sighed. "I wish he could repent and confess."

"Because that worked so _well_ last time," said Moody scathingly. "Listen, I don't like it either. You know me. But that doesn't change the fact that UQM _are_ going to be used, whether we like it or not. You know what will happen: I'll talk to him, and he'll be obnoxious. Then I'll dose him with Veritaserum, and he'll still be obnoxious. Then I'll hit him – oh, yes, Minerva, we should have given him a punch in the face a long time ago – and he'll be obnoxious all the same. Then I'll submit him to Cruciatus, and he'll start talking."

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes.

"Look," Moody insisted, "he'll tell us what he knows, and the pain will end. He'll recover."

"Are you sure about this?" asked Professor McGonagall, suddenly business-like. "What if he doesn't? You know we need him. There are curses we cannot cure – spell we cannot break."

"Are you questioning my ability?" asked Moody, standing up.

"You did it only once. Sixteen years ago. Another _lifetime_."

"It is always to same lifetime to me," said Moody, throwing some Floo powder into the fire. "Blood and tears and fire and flood every inch of it."

HHH

Molly Weasley glanced at her magical clock. According to it, all her children were 'in mortal peril', except for Fred, who was 'travelling'. But how could they be 'in mortal peril'? She looked at their faces in turn – they were all seated at the table, enjoying a rich breakfast – they all seemed so healthy and happy, even her Bill with his mangled face. Ron was laughing at something George had said. Percy, whom Minister Scrimgeour had convinced to live at the Burrow again ("I don't want Ministry workers living on their own – security measures"), was frowning at the _Daily Prophet_. Charlie was checking on a new bruise on his leg – Mrs. Weasley's heart ached only to look at it, it seemed so vicious, but she restrained from saying anything, she'd been scolded already ("It's nothing, Mum, I should have been more careful, that's all – next time I see a Red-Horned Wasp flying at me I'll flee").

"Mum? Mum, are you with us?"

"Yes, dear?"

Mrs. Weasley looked at Ginny's lips as her daughter spoke, but she didn't register a word of what she was saying. Her only daughter. And she was just a child – the way she was pouting right now – Mrs. Weasley was sure she had a picture of her aged three, doing just the same.

"Mum, stop it," Ginny shouted. The whole table fell quiet.

"I – stop what, dear?"

"You just _look_ at us, all the time – it's as though you're trying to remember our faces – it's creepy! We're not dying, we're fine, and Bill will marry Phlegm in three days"

"Don't call her that," said Bill, but he was laughing.

"Well, you do too"

"No, I don't"

"I heard you, she's right"

"Must have been Charlie"

"What are you bickering about?" asked Mr. Weasley, coming into the kitchen.

"Oh, Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley. And she burst into tears.

After an awkward moment of crying, kissing and patting each other's back, the Weasley family was ready to affront the upcoming day. Mr. Weasley and Percy would go to London, to the Ministry; Bill had reluctantly decided to go to work too, as, traditionally, the bride had to stay hidden for three long days and he didn't want to hang around in Burrow missing her; Charlie had promised he would find a Unicorn for the wedding ceremony; George would join Fred in the shop, which was closed for 'Upcoming Wedding PARTY!!!!' – Mrs. Weasley went very anxious every time she thought about what they could possibly be plotting; as for Ron and Ginny, they would help Mrs. Weasley to prepare the house for the reception.

"Three whole days just to clean the house?" Ron had gaped.

"We should have started weeks ago, but – well," had said a harassed Mrs. Weasley, shooing them out to de-gnome the Garden.

And indeed there was much to do, as mothers and brides everywhere know and grooms blissfully ignore. After the de-gnoming, it was time for Ron and Ginny to dig holes for the Self-Growing (Just Like Magic!) Special Wedding Lilies, and Mrs. Weasley went to check on her Strawberry-Mandrake Punch.

"When will Harry be here?" asked Ginny, as casually as she could.

"Lupin said they'll pick him up around sevenish," said Ron neutrally. "I heard him saying Mum."

"How is it going with Tonks, then?"

"How should I know? It's Hermione who's living with them – aren't you two writing to each other?"

"Well, Lupin and Tonks snogging is not what we usually talk about," said Ginny.

"And what do you talk about, then?"

"Wait…I can't remember…Oh, yes – we were wondering just last week when you're planning to tell Hermione how you feel towards her."

Ron stopped working on the holes.

"Did she say that?" he asked, his ears red.

"Maybe I misunderstood her when she said, 'I wonder how Ron feels towards me'."

"And what did you say"

"I said I didn't know what you wanted," said Ginny, moving to another patch of grass and moving her wand over it. "_Cavet_," she said, calmly.

There was a little explosion at her feet, and a perfectly round hole appeared out of the dissolving smoke.

Ron checked the kitchen window – Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen – he took his wand out of his belt.

"What spell did you use?"

"How do you feel about her?"

"Come on, Mum could be out here any minute!"

Ginny crossed her arms on her chest.

"Do you love her?"

"Ginny!"

At that moment a loud doorbell noise reverberated through the garden, and both Ron and Ginny turned round to look at the newly installed Apparition Dome.

"You don't think that Harry…" said Ginny at once.

Ron checked his watch.

"It's too early," he said. "It's probably some other mad relative we don't know about."

Ginny nodded: he did have a point. As soon as the wedding notice had been published on the Wizarding Board for Noticeably Facts they'd been getting Floo calls and owls from all over the country – some of them from very nice people who remembered Bill for some reason and wanted to congratulate him (their names had been written on a large paper nailed on the kitchen door, under a red writing stating _our Bill has grown up but we love him all the same_; they included some of Bill's former girlfriends, one or two Hogwarts teachers, an old Prewcett aunt nobody had seen in thirty years and the man who tended the ice-cream shop in Diagon Alley before Fortescue); many others, though, were just from people who wanted to be fed.

"Who's there?" asked Mrs. Weasley, nearly tripping on one of the chicken as she ran towards the Apparition Dome.

"_Je suis le grand-père de Fleur_," said the voice of an elderly man from inside the Dome.

"Oh," moaned Mrs. Weasley, "Not another French-speaking weirdo. I am sorry," she added, loudly and clearly, "I cannot understand you."

"Definitely not Harry," said Ron, picking up his mattock.

HHH

Hermione, one of her books open in her lap, was staring dreamily into space. On the page in front of her, a moving drawing pictured a person slowly changing to another. _Impress your friends with this easy glamour_, said the title.

The more Hermione thought about it, the more it made sense.

Harry couldn't be told about Snape. If he knew, he would want to kill Snape himself. Or to assist when…Hermione shuddered. She'd been very much afraid of this new Harry, the one she and Ron had discovered after Dumbledore's death. He focussed on revenge, on hurting his enemies – but what had Dumbledore said? Harry could only defeat Voldemort through love. And whatever that meant, it was clear enough that Harry should keep his heart in the right place.

Of course, she couldn't ask him to forgive Snape; nobody could forgive him, not now. Not ever. But evil should be fought with good deeds; nothing could come out of a clash between two armies of equally bad people. Thus Harry must be lied to. And she knew exactly how to accomplish this. It was ironic, really, that two Death Eaters – fake Moody and Snape himself – had been among the best teachers she'd ever had. Well, she'd learned her lesson.

Cheered by the thought, she stood up, wondering if Lupin and Tonks were still in the kitchen or if the way was clear. She opened the door of her room and heard no sounds from downstairs. Cautiously, she went down to the hall – Mrs. Black was dozing, thank God – and then down into the kitchen, which was mercifully empty.

Kreacher's lair was as foul as ever, but it now looked like the crystallised hiding place of a long-dead animal. The food bits were mouldy and dry, the rags oddly rigid, and a thick inch of dust covered everything.

"_Scourgify_," said Hermione, slightly nauseated by the smell.

The old food and the dust vanished. Hermione kneeled down and charmed some rubber gloves on her hands. Then she started to sort through the riff-raff, making a _Kreacher surely misses this_ pile and an _Eek! Chuck to the bin_ pile.

To her dismay, after one good hour of work there were very few items she reckoned kind to return Kreacher. Most of the treasures hidden in the lair had turned out to be disgusting things – old newspapers, their ink faded, tatters of sepia pictures, potsherds, yellowing bits of broken lace. Rather against her better judgement, she had placed in the Kreacher pile other objects just as disgusting, but a little less broken: a smelly pillow, a furry hat which was way too big for a house-elf, a dented cameo.

She now considered a horrible stuffed animal – a Fire-Breathing Weasel, if she remembered correctly. The poor beast looked at her through its beaded eyes – a pitying sight. It looked very old and had been very poorly stuffed. Hermione could still see were the sewing was – bits of fur were missing around it. The Weasel's paws had been messily glued to a battered wood support.

For the umpteenth time Hermione wondered why Kreacher would steal these useless objects and then sleep with them, night after night. She was thorn between disgust and pity. Even serving the Blacks, a family he actually liked, Kreacher had felt the need of his own 'home', decorated with the garbage wizards were throwing away.

She absently turned the Weasel round and saw that under the wood support was written a name in a rounded, childish calligraphy.

_Regulus Arsenius Black_

Hermione's heart ached for him. Judging by the writing, little Regulus couldn't have been older than eight or nine when he'd learned how to stuff a dead animal. She suddenly had a flash of a memory: a dead robin she and her father had found in their garden when she was little – how she had cried and cried over it, how they'd dug a little grave, and then covered it with flowers…_Childhood is indeed everything_, she thought.

She moved her hand over the 'treasures' pile, and then stopped in mid-movement.

_Regulus Arsenius Black_.

R.A.B.

Her heart made a flip in her chest.

_Next Update: May 14__th__ (Petunia gets a gift, Ron is jealous, Snape is annoying)_

_A/N: I thank you very much for your reviews, they do encourage me to write this story as best as I can! I also wanted to thank you for pointing out some details to me – so apparently JKR gave us Mrs. Black's name (I missed this) and it's not Agrippina at all, but rather a German-Norse-Viking kind of name I forgot already. As this story will necessarily be AU here and there, I won't change the name of the portrait. Plus, I liked the name and I thought it fitted because Agrippina was this mad character of Roman history – she was Emperor Nero's mother, and much more clever than he was. It was she who put him on the throne, even if he didn't have any royal blood. A bow to women who have changed history! Also – how Snape got captured will be clearer (I hope) in later chapters, so don't worry about it._


	4. Chapter 4

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 4 – Leaving the Past Behind**

"There's nothing to be nervous about," said Lupin, for the third time, and Hermione nodded, clutching the stuffed weasel to her chest. "We'll send you through now – any Order member can open a connection to and from Grimmauld Palace – and then we'll set out to pick Harry up. He'll be at the Burrow well before midnight."

"Yes. Of course," said Hermione, her mind elsewhere.

"Do you – er – do you have everything?" asked Lupin staring at the weasel.

"Yes, I'm all packed," said Hermione, trying to retain some dignity.

"Ok."

Lupin turned away from her and walked to the gigantic hearth.

"_Incendio_," he said.

At once, a roaring fire at least three feet tall erupted into the fireplace. Lupin threw some Floo powder into it and knelt on the floor, putting his head into the flames.

Hermione knew he was talking to Mrs. Weasley to check that the coast was clear, but she didn't care. She was now sure that the locket, the true Horcrux, was still in the house; in fact, it had to be the very locket they'd almost thrown to the bin two years previously. She was very annoyed to leave Grimmauld Palace now that she was so close to the discovery of the third Horcrux, but on the other hand she didn't want to search for it without Harry. Her mind was also busy considering whether the bit of Voldemort's soul in the jewel had been destroyed or not. The locket they'd found wouldn't open – did that mean that the spell was still working? And in that case, how should they revert it?

"Ok, it's safe. Molly's already cooking supper – smells wonderful."

"What? Oh – thank you. And thank you for allowing me to stay here too. I hope I didn't bother you and Tonks too much."

"Nonsense," said Lupin, smiling. "Any news of your parents?"

"Yes, they say Switzerland is wonderful. Bit expensive, though. But Dad will be able to open a study in October, so…" Hermione was very proud of her parents. They'd had no hesitation in closing down their practice and shutting the house away. The difficult bit had been convincing them that she needed to stay behind.

"Good. Well, it was the safest thing. Go on then – the connection won't be open long."

"See you soon," said Hermione, stepping into the green flames. "The Burrow!" she said, clearly, and her feet began to spin at once – darkness – dust in her mouth – a sudden view of a sitting room where an elderly couple was holding hands – and then Hermione smelled, quite clearly, Molly Weasley's onion soup.

Two sets of identical hands pulled her out of the fireplace.

"Miss Prefect," said Fred.

"We are wonderfully pleased to see thou again," said George, bowing deeply.

Hermione smiled. She'd always been good at telling them apart – Fred's face was somehow thinner, and George's eyebrows a bit closer together. It was easiest when you saw the two of them at once, though.

"Let her breathe, boys," said Mrs. Weasley's stern voice. "Hermione, dear, how lovely to see you!"

"Is this a gift for ickle Ronniekins?" asked Fred, plucking the stuffed weasel from her hands.

"No, this is – give it back!" she said, but she was laughing.

"A pervy side then? From our little Miss Prefect?" whispered George, as he tickled her under her armpits, effectively restraining her from getting at the weasel.

Hermione was howling with laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks, by the time Ron and Ginny made her way into the kitchen. Seeing Ron's expression everyone sobered up at once. Fred gave the weasel back to Hermione, and the twins left the room.

"Hermione!" said Ginny, steering her away from Ron. "I've been dying to see you. Come on"

"Hi Ginny! Hi Ron," Hermione said, blushing. She thought about staying behind and talk to Ron, but he looked murderous. Instead, she brushed past him and she quickly followed Ginny to her room.

"Is he _jealous_?" she whispered, as they both thundered up the stairs. "Of his own brothers?"

"Wouldn't you?" asked Ginny shrewdly. "I'm glad I'm a girl – wouldn't like to compete with that lot for my boyfriends."

"What do you mean?" said Hermione, lying down her bag on Ginny's bed.

"Hermione, don't be thick! Look at my brothers!" Ginny forced a picture into Hermione's hand, and she took it, even though she could have summoned the faces of every member of the Weasley family in her sleep. For the first time, though, she searched those faces from a _girl's_ point of view, and frowned. Ginny was right. Bill was…had been…so very handsome. Charlie's body was nice to look at, with muscles growing in all the right places. Fred and George, who were waving at her, were indeed charming, even though their charm came from their wit more than from their looks. Only poor Percy, with his thickly rimmed glasses, and his droning on thick-bottomed cauldrons, was unattractive.

"Well," she said, as her eyes scanned Charlie's bare arms again, "Ron should know than there's more between us than good looks." She put down the photograph, feeling somehow dirty. "And anyway, he hasn't any right to be jealous, we aren't even together!"

"You know," said Ginny, plopping down on her bed, "I would feel a lot more comfortable talking to you if you weren't holding a dead rat."

HHH

It was seven thirty when the doorbell rang. Aunt Petunia, who was slicing everybody's pizzas except Harry's, she stopped neatly in mid-movement, her eyes darting around the room.

"Vernon," she said.

"I'll get it, dear, don't worry," said uncle Vernon, starting to get up from the table.

"I'll go," said Harry, drawing his wand out.

"Do-not-use-that-_thing_-in-this-house," hissed uncle Vernon, as Dudley recoiled from his seat.

Harry didn't listen to him. He walked in the dark entrance hall, his heart pumping fast.

"Who's there?" he shouted.

"It's us," said Lupin in a muffled voice.

Harry hesitated.

"What did you do after the Dementors attacked the Hogwarts Express three years ago?" he asked, picking the first thing which came to his mind.

"I gave you chocolate," said Lupin, sounding amused. "Really, Harry," he added, as Harry opened the door, "you of all people read Ministry leaflets?"

"No! I mean – I thought I'd check," said Harry, mortified. He flattened against the wall as Lupin, Tonks, Moody and Charlie Weasley made their way into the house.

"Curse first, check later," said Tonks happily. "Am I right, Mad-Eye?"

The Order members had reached the kitchen, and they stopped as one taking in the three Dursley cowering against the sink. The pizza knife, blotted with melted mozzarella cheese, gleamed in uncle Vernon's hand.

"Don't worry," said Lupin kindly. "It's ok."

"_Evanesco_," barked Moody, and the knife disappeared. Looking around, he nodded approvingly. The room was buried in boxes and plastic wrappings. "So you took my advice. Excellent."

"Is there a way to protect the house when they're gone?" asked Harry at once, making his way to the front of the group. "Another Muggle family will come and live here."

"We'll put up some wards," said Tonks. "Now, Harry – have you packed? I'll need to shrink everything, as we're Apparating away."

"Yes, come on – I'll show you."

This time he was ready. Everything was in his trunk; the Invisibility Cloak was on the top of it. Hedwig was fretting in her cage. The room looked bare, unlived on. Harry's clothes, quills, books – even the secret cakes hidden under the floor – all had been tidied away.

"How does it feel?" asked Tonks quietly, neatly reducing Harry's trunk to the size of a matchbox.

"All right," was Harry's neutral answer. How could he explain the mingled feelings twisting into his chest – relief, fear, a sense of impending freedom and of impending doom. "Hang on – what are you doing?" he added, seeing that Tonks had now pointed her wand at Hedwig.

"Er – reducing her?"

"Are you sure about this?"

"Haven't you studied Charms on living beings?" Tonks asked, looking a little superior. "It's not very complex – just a flick of your wand – _Reducio_," she said, and Hedwig shrank, cage and all, until Harry could see a very tiny bird, not bigger than a sparrow, look up at him with aggrieved eyes.

He took the cage, bewildered.

"Here's your trunk," said Tonks, keeping his formerly three feet trunk between her thumb and her index finger.

Harry pocketed it, then carefully placed the miniature cage in the front pocket of his shirt.

As they closed it behind them, the door made a very soft _click_; but it sounded like a loud, world-changing _bang_ to Harry.

They arrived in the kitchen to find the situation even more awkward than before, if such a thing was possible. Charlie was tapping the sink with his wand, turning the knobs of different colours; Moody was standing by the door, looking more menacing than ever with his mismatched face half into shadow; Lupin was talking quietly to aunt Petunia, who stared mutinously at the floor.

"…it is very dangerous to leave them lying around," he was saying, as Harry and Tonks came in.

"I'm not a messy person," said aunt Petunia unnecessarily – every kitchen surface, even the one closest to the cold pizzas in their boxes, was gleaming. "I won't leave them lying around."

"Don't you think Harry should have them?" Lupin said gently.

"What are you" started Harry, and then stopped. To his utter astonishment, he saw that aunt Petunia had started to cry.

"I know our relationship was – was not very good, but it's all I got of her. I have nothing else – our parents had all the pictures, and then there was that fire and"

She was talking, Harry realised with a jolt, about his mother. Aunt Petunia had never mentioned his mother before; not once in eleven years, not even when, as a child, he'd begged her to tell him something. Anything. And then – Harry remembered it well – then she's said that terrible thing, the very night Hagrid had come to take him to Hogwarts. 'She was a freak," she'd said, and her words had rung in Harry's ears again and again.

"It's not always easy for us to understand one another," said Lupin, patting her on the shoulder. "You don't have to feel guilty about it."

_Well, that's a bit rich_, Harry thought, _after the way she's treated me all these years_.

Aunt Petunia stood up abruptly and left the room. They heard the creaking of the stairs, a door opening, a noise of drawers – uncle Vernon stood frozen in place, looking like he didn't have a clue about what was going on – and then she was back, clutching a wooden box to her chest.

"Here it is," she said, giving it to Harry. She wiped her blotched eyes impatiently.

Harry took it without a word.

Lupin stood up from the chair he'd been sitting on and Dudley relaxed slightly: it was obvious that the Order was preparing to leave.

"Goodbye then," said Harry. He wasn't going to say thank you for the miserable life he'd always have at their house.

The Dursley sat very rigid, not saying a word; in the end, though, when Moody and Charlie were already in the dark entrance hall, they muttered a resentful 'Goodbye'.

"Good luck," said aunt Petunia, so softly that Harry was quiet sure he'd misunderstood her.

Then Lupin turned suddenly around and walked straight to her.

"Stand still," he said, drawing his wand out.

Uncle Vernon tried to move in front of his wife, but his own bulk prevented the movement, and Lupin was quicker. He touched his own head with his wand and then pulled it away, and Harry saw a very thin, silvery thread protruding from the wand's tip. Lupin, his hand under aunt Petunia's chin, placed his wand on her perfect hair-set. The memory was instantly absorbed, and aunt Petunia's eyes went glassy for a moment.

"What are you – WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY WIFE?" bellowed uncle Vernon, nearly crashing down the table in his effort to get to her.

"I presented her with a memory. One of my own, Lily aged seventeen," said Lupin mildly. "I'm sure she'll like it."

Aunt Petunia's eyes were back to normal, and Harry understood that she'd seen the whole memory. Then, all of a sudden, she started to cry again, a loud, despairing sound; she cried like a child, taking deep, irregular breaths, choking and clutching her chest.

"Let's go, Harry," said Tonks, steering him towards the front door.

Moody and Charlie were waiting for them in the garden. It was a beautiful night, very clear and starry, but Harry was in no mood to enjoy it.

"What's in this box?" he asked, turning round to look at Lupin.

"Lily's letters to James," Lupin said quietly, looking up at the empty sky.

HHH

Ginny Weasley was doing her best to look busy. She'd come down from her room at six thirty, ferreting around for any sign that Harry would arrive soon. She'd been told that Charlie had gone to Grimmauld Palace in order to meet Moody, Lupin and Tonks there – Harry should arrive any minute now. Ginny didn't want to stay in the sitting room, but didn't wish to go back upstairs either. So she started to help her mother with the baked bread and the peas and the strawberry cake.

At six forty-five, Harry wasn't there yet, and Ginny had set the table.

At six fifty-five, Harry was still not there. Hermione was sitting in the couch, and her eyes were darting between the fire-place and the thick book she was reading. Ron sat on the opposite end of the couch, busily sucking on a Sugar Quill. Mrs. Weasley had disappeared behind a cloud of red mist – probably a Cake Icing Charm gone astray.

At seven o'clock sharp, there was an audible 'click': Charlie Weasley's hand of the magical clock had moved from 'mortal peril' to 'travelling'. As Ginny hastily tried to smooth the end of her braid, which she'd been chewing on for the last minutes, she heard the Apparition Dome ring four times, signalling that four guests were about to Apparate. Ginny stayed rooted to the spot, while Hermione and Ron stood up quickly, pressing their noses to the window, and Mrs. Weasley ran into the garden, her apron blotted with strawberry icing.

In the sudden silence, another 'click' resonated. Charlie's hand had moved again. All the Weasleys were now, according to the clock, in 'mortal peril'.

HHH

The first thing Harry did was check on Hedwig. To his relief, she seemed unperturbed by their Side-Along Apparition with Lupin.

"Could you" he said, as soon as Tonks Apparated beside him.

"Wait until we're outside," she said, crushing into him as Moody Apparated behind them.

"Aren't we – where are we?" Harry asked, suddenly looking around him.

He was sure they were going to Apparate to the Burrow, possibly in the very spot just a few paces from the front door where Dumbledore and himself had arrived last year. Instead, they were in a white, circular building, barely four feet wide and six feet tall. The walls emanated a tremulous light, but Harry could see the natural light of the slowly fading sun filtering through the upper part of the dome. There were no doors and no windows. Right in front Harry's nose, though, was a golden doorbell.

"It is an" started Lupin, but then Charlie Apparated right in the middle of the strange building and all of them were squashed against the walls, which turned out to be of some very soft material – almost a thick velvety fabric.

"Sorry," said Charlie, steadying Tonks. "What are they waiting for?" And he rang the golden doorbell.

"This is an Apparition Dome," said Lupin, rearranging his light travelling cloak. "Molly and Arthur got one for the wedding – much safer and more practical to have all your guests arriving in the same place."

"Coming!" shouted Mrs. Weasley's voice from the outside, and a moment later a door opened into the wall closest to Harry, and he saw that they were only a few paces away from the Burrow.

"Oh, Harry, dear!" said Mrs. Weasley, as she stood on her toes to kiss his forehead. "Remus! Tonks! Oh, Charlie!" She hugged her son, her eyes a bit teary.

"Come on, Mum, I've been gone one hour," said Charlie, slightly embarrassed.

"Good evening, Molly," said Moody, and she jumped – it was obvious she'd forgotten about him.

Harry saw Ron and Hermione's faces through the sitting-room window and smiled. This was his home. This was his family. Looking behind him, he noticed that the Apparition Dome was now closed. Its walls, he noticed with some astonishment, were almost transparent. He could see quite clearly the golden doorbell and even the trees dotting the Weasley's backyard.

"Give me your owl," said Tonks, and a moment later the cage was open and a normal-sized Hedwig was soaring over the Burrow, her form only a dark silhouette in the red sun.

"Harry!"

Hermione was running at him. Mr. Weasley had emerged smiling from the broomstick shed, a Muggle screwdriver in his hand.

As Harry started towards the house, he heard Moody calling at Mr. Weasley – "Should we go now to fetch the wine, then?" – and Mr. Weasley quickly agreeing – and then Hermione was hugging him tightly, and her bushy hair were so thick against his glasses that he couldn't see anything.

"Harry – I have big news," she whispered in his ear.

HHH

"I am touched," said Severus Snape in a drawling voice, turning his head as much as the Binding Spell would allow.

"Yes, Lupin said you would have liked it," said Moody irritably, trying key after key on the huge wardrobe in the corner of the room.

"Are you telling me that this house doesn't even have a proper dungeon?"

Moody cursed under his breath.

"As you well know, this room is the most heavily protected. Not that we're expecting someone to come looking for you," he said, trying to be as insulting as he could.

Snape's eyes alighted wickedly.

"You'd better protect Professor Slughorn, if you're planning to keep me here long," he said with a sneer.

"What do you mean?" said Arthur Weasley.

Moody had found the right key. With a relieved grunt, he pulled the door open and stepped into the windowless room which had appeared inside the wardrobe.

"There," he said, with some grim satisfaction. "Mouldy, humid, no sunlight. It should suit you."

Snape kept his eyes on him, and didn't bother to answer either of them.

"What he means," said Moody, coming back into the first room and pushing roughly Snape into the wardrobe, "is that Voldemort will need a Potions Master. As Snape here won't be available for a while" He marked these words by kicking his prisoner into the back of his knees, so that he staggered and fell forwards. "he will redouble his efforts to get Slughorn. Of course, there's still Carter in – where is it? Exeter?"

"Bath," said Snape, managing to turn round. He was now facing upwards, his arms rigid at his sides. He bent his head slightly, facing his former allies. His nose seemed to be broken, and his thin mouth was thorn in disapproval, as though Moody were one of his homework-forgetting students.

Arthur Weasley looked away, a sickened expression on his face. Moody, though, held Snape's gaze.

"That's right," he said, with a crooked smile. "Carter lives in Bath, and he's better than you two put together, isn't he? Graduated from Venice Academy of Alchemy in 1799. But of course," he added, turning towards Arthur, "he's quite senile. Hasn't uttered a single word in the last three decades."

Snape spat on the floor, but Moody ignored him.

"But Slughorn is still at Hogwarts, isn't he?" he asked Arthur.

"Hogwarts is fair game now that the Headmaster has gone," said Snape from the floor.

"_Incarcero_," said Moody, and at once Snape's limbs relaxed from the Body Bind as thick chains slithered upon his body, growing from the floor itself. "We won't be around for a while, with the wedding and everything. Can't say we'll miss you."

He shut the door of the wardrobe and locked it.

"Shouldn't we leave him some food?" asked Mr. Weasley, as Moody pocketed the keys.

"I've left water, though I bet you he won't drink it," said Moody, as they both started down the creaking stairs. "He won't die if he doesn't eat for two days. He's tougher than he looks."

Mr. Weasley looked unconvinced, but he didn't press the point. Instead, he scratched his balding head nervously.

"And, Alastor – what happened to his _eyes_?"

Before Moody had the time to answer this, they were distracted by a loud screeching sound. They had arrived in the hall, and Mrs. Black was awake.

"Arthur!" she cried in delight, looking straight at Moody. "Charlie! I must say, dear," she said to Arthur Weasley. "You look more and more like you father. You must be proud!" she added, smiling at Moody.

"I am," said Moody, patting Arthur's back. "He's a very good son. And I'd like to look at that sweater very much," he added, seeing Mrs. Black quickly disentangling her work from her gowns, "but we really should be going. You know, he's a bit young to be out this late."

Mr. Weasley rolled his eyes, but Mrs. Black was positively gushing.

"Right you are, dear. Go on then – your wife will worry."

A shadow passed over Moody's eyes. He nodded curtly at the portrait and ushered Arthur Weasley outside the house.

_Next Update: May 20__th__ (a wedding, a Horcrux, an awkward meeting)_

_A/N – Hi and thank you so much for your reviews! First of all, I'm sorry that this fic takes so long to reach the HG/SS part of the plot – I'm just trying to keep it 'real' and pliant with book 6. From now on, it should be quicker, though…_

_About your reviews:_

_**duj** – I'm Swiss and I have no idea on how the Britsh school system works. It seemed possible that 'extra-ordinary' schoools like Hogwarts or the big Muggle publich schools have this 7-years system, whereas 'normal' schools may have a 4+4 system, like here (11-14 years old, then 15-18 years old). IMO, Dudley may have 'graduated' at 15 and chose whether he wanted to keep studying or start working._

_**wingsrookie** – mh, that would be very interesting…for the moment, I'm not sure that we're telling Harry about SS, though – too much bitterness there._

_**mayadidi** – Thank you! I'm not a computer girl, and I cannot understand how the other sites, like Schnoogle or Ashwinder, work. If you know, please tell me!_


	5. Chapter 5

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 5 – A Child's Bedroom **

"Forever."

The word, ringing in two different voices, seemed to echo again and again; Harry didn't know if it was a magical induced effect or if his tired brain was making it up. As he looked at Fleur and Bill kissing each other lightly on the lips, he felt strangely moved. _This is what my parents' marriage must have looked like_, he thought. _Happy friends, happy families, two young people shouting at the world that their love would survive everything. Even war. Even death._

On his right, Ginny was crying silently, her freckled cheeks alight with shiny tears. Her chin was set, however, and her eyes had a hard look in them, as she stared at her mutilated brother and his beautiful bride. Harry felt a pang of sorrow, and quickly turned around to watch Hermione and Ron, sitting on his other side.

Ron looked happy and a bit tipsy – Fred and George had discovered where Mrs. Weasley kept hidden the special Strawberry-Mandrake Punch she had been preparing since two weeks, and Ron had joined them for a glass of it before the ceremony, "To ease our nerves," as they'd said to an amused Remus Lupin.

"It isn't you lot getting married, now, is it?" Remus had answered, hiding the punch away.

Hermione hadn't noticed anything – she was too busy smiling and blushing and crying, looking very pretty in a pale blue dress, her hair magically tamed in a crown of ringlets around her forehead.

Harry closed his hands into fists. He felt so guilty about all of them. If it weren't for him, this would be a normal marriage. Bill would have been his usual handsome self, Ginny would be holding hands with Dean, Hermione and Ron would have finished this day happily anticipating their seventh year…Sirius and Dumbledore would have been there…

The ceremony was over. Everyone was getting up, strolling lazily towards the little white tables shining like daisies in the Weasley's garden. As Harry looked around, trying to find his name on one of them, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around to find Remus Lupin looking down at him.

"I know that look, Harry," he said softly. "Stop it. None of what has happened has been your fault."

Harry didn't answer, looking determinedly past Lupin's shoulder. They were almost the same height, now.

"William would have fought no matter what. And the same is true for Sirius. He never was a coward. As for Dumbledore…well, I've had time to think it over these past weeks, and I think that maybe…But we shouldn't talk about this here. What I'm trying to say, Harry," Lupin smiled at him, "is that especially now days like this one are a gift. Don't throw it away. Be happy with your friends."

Harry nodded, and Tonks came to claim Lupin's company. Watching the two of them making their way between the tables, Harry decided to take Lupin's advice. He squared his shoulders, smiled, and sat down at a small table with Hermione, George, Neville, Gabrielle, who blushed furiously, and three other French girls he didn't know. He _would_ enjoy this day.

HHH

The evening slowly rolled away, and then came the night, spiked with music and drinking and beautiful stars; at midnight sharp, Gabrielle Delacour fell asleep on the table, her face in her plate of _méringues glacées_.

The Delacour mother, a stately witch who didn't spoke a word of English, was instantly at her daughter's side.

"_Ma pauvre petite_," she said. "_Mon petit ange._"

Harry thought she looked drunk, but, as he was a little drunk himself, was in no mood to judge her. She reminded him a little of Narcissa Malfoy – the same haughty expression and the same blond hair, turning to warm gold in candlelight. Not that he'd ever seen Narcissa Malfoy at night, he thought. Oh, wait, he had – at the Quidditch World Cup, but he couldn't quite remember whether artificial light suited her or not. Harry smiled, draining the last drops in his glass – purest Elf-made wine, even motherly Mrs. Weasley couldn't deny alcohol in the day of Bill's wedding. She'd tried to sermon Ginny about propriety and quantities, but it hadn't ended well. The wine, deep red and almost viscous, dripped slowly on Harry's mouth as he thought about the Malfoys, wondering whether Draco had been punished for his failure, whether he and his mother had managed to escape.

"'Arry?" said a throathy voice on his left, and Harry turned – and stared.

Fleur Delacour was bending over him, her huge blue eyes shining in happiness, her cheeks delicately flushed by the wine. A single, neat braid caressed her long neck, swaying slightly in the fresh night air. She looked more than beautiful – she was ethereal, almost unreal. Realizing she was staring at her cleavage, Harry stood up brusquely, and his chair crashed in the grass behind him with a reproachful 'Ouch'.

"Yes?" he said, coughing a little.

"I was wondering if you could 'elp my mozer to put Gabrielle to bed," she said in her heavily accented English.

"Oh – of course." Harry quickly scanned the table and saw Hermione nodding at him – she was sitting next to Fleur's sister, and had already wiped her face clean. Ron, who'd taken Neville's free chair because Neville had left with a French brunette and hadn't come back, was gaping at Fleur, his Porto sherbet dripping on his knees. Hermione kicked him under the table, and Ron closed his mouth.

"We'll help too," he said, standing up. He'd grown at least two inches during the few weeks they had been apart, Hermione thought. He was now taller than the twins.

"Wonderful." Fleur's face alighted in a smile, and Ron had to close his eyes. "My mozer will show you."

Hermione was trying to help Gabrielle to her feet, but she slept on like a child, her head lolling sideways.

"Wait," said Harry quickly. "_Levicorpus_."

Keeping Gabrielle's body floating in front of them, he and Ron followed Hermione and Mrs. Delacour. The two of them seemed deep in conversation – at least, the older woman kept gibbering in French, and Hermione would say '_Oui_' and '_Tout à fait, Madame_' whenever the other caught her breath.

The Delacour were staying in a luxurious tent which had been erected behind the apple-orchard. From the outside, it was magnificent – deep, crimson velvet embroidered with lilies (one of Fleur's ancestor had been the bride of a _Dauphin de France_) and live faeries fluttering all over it – but they knew from Ginny, who'd been sent inside to bring Fleur aunt Muriel's tiara, that the interior was beyond imagination, with huge marble stairs and unicorn tapestries on every wall.

Why the Delacour needed so much room was a mystery, since only four people lived there (Fleur, her mother, her sister and her grandfather); the other relatives had found beds in another, smaller, tent, annexed to the first.

"_Merci, c'est parfait, vous pouvez nous laisser_," said Fleur's mother as they arrived to the Delacour tent. "Zank-you," she added, with an embarrassed little smile.

"_Pas de quoi_," said Hermione, as Mrs.Delacour and her youngest daughter disappeared inside the tent.

"What have you two been chatting about?" asked Harry.

"Well – the part I understood she was complaining about an evening ceremony – you know, ill-suited for the children and all that."

"Do Muggle weddings take place during the day?" asked Ron with a yawn.

"It depends. But they have not the same symbolism, obviously."

"Come again?"

"Well," said Hermione, impatiently, "Wizards follow Celtic traditions, don't they? A beginning always takes place before the night, just as the new year starts during the winter. This is related to the belief that souls move from one body to another and therefore, death always precedes life."

Ron yawned.

"It was you who asked," said Hermione, resentfully. Then, ignoring him, she turned to Harry. "What do you reckon? Should we do it now?"

Harry felt sober at once. The last three days had passed in a blur of laces, flowers, pastries and self-growing roses, but in the middle of all that, Harry's mind had been fixated on one single thing: the stuffed weasel Hermione had brought from Grimmauld Palace. The three of them had talked and talked about it, and in the end the two boys had agreed with Hermione. It seemed very probable that Sirius' brother and the mysterious R.A.B. were one and the same; also, Sirius had once mentioned that Regulus had had some disagreements with Voldemort – disagreements which had lead to his death. They also knew that the cursed items they'd found while cleaning Grimmauld Palace hadn't been thrown away. Dumbledore had prevented this, as he wanted to make sure there was nothing dangerous among those objects, but he'd never had time to sort through them. Hermione had also reluctantly agreed that they would need some time to search the house; the emptier it was, the better. And what moment was better than Bill and Fleur's wedding party? Half of the Order was at the Burrow, ranking from tipsy to drunk; the other half was probably on duty.

Harry looked at Hermione, his mind racing.

"Yes," he said after a few seconds. "Yes."

At once, their plan was put into action.

Hermione went to collect every item who could help their research – Harry's Invisibility Cloak and Sneakoscope, her own books on dark magic and dark spells, miniaturized to the size of stamps, the Weasley's box of First Wizarding Help (including three Galleons, which Hermione left behind, some self-applying burn salve, Imelda Rookwood's bones removal set, standard Muggle sterile tissues and a flask of Strenghtening Potion).

Ron had the unenviable task of taking Bill off Fleur's mouth for at least ten minutes – he needed to convince his older brother to open a Floo connection to Grimmauld Palace for them. Hermione had suggested Bill mainly because he was not himself. Over the last days he'd been walking around grinning like a manic and laughing to everything everyone said to him. He even found Percy's retellings of his days at the office 'endearing', and his own goblin colleagues 'quite nice'. If there was a member of the Order they could trick into this, it was Bill.

Meanwhile, Harry would try to steal Moody's set of keys. Hermione had pointed out that this was an unnecessary risk – through the Floo network they would arrive inside the house, and _Alohamora_ would have worked on the simplest Warding Spells – but Harry had been adamant. In for a penny…

As it turned out, it was easier than they'd thought. Moody had drunk very much. He'd been very snappy every time they'd seen him before the party; and Mr. Weasley had warned them not to mention weddings, brides or white dresses to him, but he'd flat-out refused to say them why. Harry rather thought this may be connected to Moody's personal life, but between decorating the house and stare at the childish writing under the stuffed weasel, he hadn't had any time to delve on the subject.

All what mattered now, August 4th, one o'clock a.m., was that when Harry warily stepped into the Burrow's kitchen, his pocket weighing down with Moody's huge ring of keys, he found Ron and Hermione waiting for him, both of them grinning. The flames were already green.

HHH

"The Sneakoscope won't work in this house," said Hermione in a no-nonsense voice. "I suggest we start from the upper floors – Harry, you can search the attic; Ron, Mrs. Black's room has been de-contaminated only last week, it should be safe to enter it now. We'll keep in contact with these Galleons, and if you find the locket pick it up – we already touched it once, there shouldn't be any problem"

"Hermione," said Ron, interrupting her, "have you took _notes_ on this?"

"No harm in being prepared," said Hermione, hastily stuffing a roll of parchment back into her bag.

"What will you do?" asked Harry.

"I was thinking about Sirius' and Regulus' old rooms. I've been studying Lupin's plans of the building while I was here, but these rooms don't show on them. I thought I'd check."

"Ok. Be careful. If you want to turn back"

"Come on, Harry. We're into this together," said Ron.

They split at the third floor; Hermione took the left-hand corridor, Ron the right-hand. Harry continued upstairs.

"See you later," they murmured to each other.

"_Lumos_," said Hermione, as she entered the dark corridor.

In the beginning she could still hear Ron muttering under his breath, and Harry's feet as he walked up the creaky steps, but after a few moments everything was silent. It was as though she was alone in the world – no noise, no light, dust so thick it looked the place had been abandoned for years…Hermione shuddered.

_Put yourself together_, she thought fiercely.

As she came to the end of the corridor, she noticed two twin doors, one on her right, one on her left. She lifted her wand up and saw that on one of them had been carved a name – _Regulus_ – while the other was bare. She pushed the second one open and she stepped inside.

To the wavering light of her wand, she noticed immediately that the room seemed unlived in. It was very bare and impersonal – a bed with white sheets and iron bars, looking very much like it'd been stolen from an asylum; a desk with nothing on it but an inch of dust; a dark wardrobe in a corner, its doors hanging slightly open (it seemed empty); no books, no frames, no carpets, no hangings on the dark window.

This, Hermione understood it at once, must have been Sirius' room. His parents had probably stripped it down and thrown away all of his possessions after he'd left home, at sixteen. Hermione tried to imagine how she would feel leaving her home, and she sighed. Sirius had had such a difficult life.

She wondered whether anything had been hidden in here. Against her better judgment, she waved her wand around.

"_Apparecio_," she said.

Immediately, one of the desk drawers sprang open and an heavy object came zooming towards her, kicking her in the ribs.

"Ouch," she said, catching it as it started to fall on the floor.

It was a book – her annoyance was immediately forgotten. Turning it round, she read the title: _Macgnimartha Finn_. She'd never heard about it. As she opened the first page, a sheet fell out of it and she picked it up.

It was a child's drawing, very simple, the way children draw: a house, flowers in the garden, clouds and a smiling sun in the sky. Capital letters, very lopsided, said _To my beloved brother, Regulus_.

Hermione was almost overwhelmed with sadness. Biting her lower lip, she looked at the front page in the book. _Sirius Black, 1976_, said a crumpled writing in a corner of the page. And over it, in bigger letters, another hand asked, _But who needs omniscience when one has Quidditch glory?_

Stuffing the book into her bag, she went out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. It seemed strange that the Black's brothers' rooms wouldn't show on the plans – Sirius' room seemed most normal. Hermione thought hard, staring absently at the carved 'Regulus' in front of her. She didn't think for a second that the rooms had been forgotten; surely they'd been made Unplottable for some reason – but it could simply be a matter of protecting the children inside, she thought. Unplottable rooms won't show on maps, and one won't find them unless one knows that they are there. If Sirius hadn't mentioned this corridor, no one would have been aware of it, even though it was in a very conspicuous place. Was it simply a protective device? Hermione tut-tutted in annoyance. She'd been so sure that the Horcrux may be hidden there…

_First check, then complain_, she thought, putting her hand on the doorknob of the second room.

"Ouch!" it said.

Hermione jumped backwards, crashing into Sirius' door. Steadying her wand, she saw that the doorknob had stretched a little – the keyhole now looked like a tiny mouth, and two little screws now blinked tentatively in the bright light of her wand.

"Lower your light," it complained. "I can't see anything."

_Well, you're a doorknob! You're not _supposed_ to see anything!_, thought Hermione, her heart pumping fast.

But six years of magical education had taught her to react normally in abnormal situations, and, after all, her mother had always insisted in good manners. She lowered her light.

"Much better. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Er – I'd like to enter Regulus' room," said Hermione politely.

The tiny metal face contorted in an expression of comical dismay.

"I'm afraid this won't be possible, young lady. Only master Regulus' friends and family can pass."

As Hermione stared at it, the doorknob added hopefully, "Are you either one?"

"Actually," Hermione said nervously, "Actually I am a friend of his."

"Come nearer," said the doorknob; and when she did, it added, "I don't think you are. You are too young. My poor master has been dead so long…"

Hermione bit her lower lip. Dishonesty hadn't worked; maybe honesty would?

"I'm sorry I lied," she said. "It's that – I really need to get past you. Is there any way to do this?"

"The enchantment can be broken by a powerful wizard. Are you a powerful wizard?"

"No," Hermione said, miserably.

"Then I'm sorry, but you can't enter without my approval, and I can't let you in."

_It has such a talent for stating the obvious twice_, Hermione thought. But maybe being a doorknob made you a little redundant? People wanting the same thing from you all over?

The tiny eyes were turning into screws again, and Hermione panicked. Now she was sure that something important was hidden in this room – otherwise, why bother with a Carroll knob? They _did_ cost a fortune!

"Wait!" she said. "I'm here because – because I found this, and I thought that Regulus would have liked to have it back."

She took the reduced weasel out of her bag and quickly made it its normal size again.

"You see?" she continued, turning it round. "Regulus did it when he was little, and they were going to throw it away, and I couldn't let them do it."

The doorknob didn't seem impressed, but when he spoke again Hermione detected a nuance of doubt in his voice.

"My master is dead," it said. "Why would he care?"

"A person's soul doesn't die," said Hermione gravely. "And it is grateful when the living ones remember him, and think about him."

"Are you sure?" asked the doorknob.

"I am sure," said Hermione, feeling her throat close. So many people had died…she thought about Dumbledore, the twinkle in his eyes, the words of praise he'd always had for her…_Well done, Miss Granger_…

The doorknob remained silent for a moment; then, the door creaked open.

"Thank you," said Hermione, sniffing.

"Does that mean," said the doorknob, and it hesitated. "Does that mean that when I go all rusty and can't do my job anymore, something of me will stay here?"

Hermione smiled. Now that the door was open, she found the tiny object quite cute, in its own weird way.

"Yes," she said. "And _I_ will remember you as long as I live."

"Thank you," it said, and then fell silent.

HHH

"We have not found him, Master," said the kneeling man.

Lord Voldemort did not look at his servant. He was staring at the opposite wall, his red eyes very intent. "I know," he said, "I know. My Ministry spy says he's been caught."

Despite his better judgement, the man on the floor lifted his head slightly. "Caught, my Lord?" he asked, sounding bewildered.

Lord Voldemort didn't answer. _Every piece of the fake prophecy is falling into place_, he thought. _The good and the bad_.

A voice intruded in his thoughts: his servant was speaking again.

"How…how did that happen? Has he met his match?"

Lord Voldemort finally looked down at the kneeling man, and the Death Eater tried to mask the savage joy in his eyes – too late – the fiery eyes of his master were staring into his own, holing through his very brain, and the man had a glimpse of fire and darkness, and he cried out.

The Dark Lord kept his stare on him until the man was writhing with agony, then closed his eyes.

"Be warned," he said, his eyes still closed, to his other servants standing into the shadows. "You have taken a Vow – you have now no Self, and therefore no disagreement from your Master."

The cloaked figures murmured their assent. One of them, however, walked up to the Dark Lord's throne and kneeled.

"Allow me to take his life," a woman's voice whispered through the silver mask. "Allow me to punish he who has angered you."

"Your husband will live," said Lord Voldemort imperiously, and at once two men came forward and helped the gasping man to his feet, dragging him away. "As for you, Bella, you will find Severus and bring him back where he belongs."

Bellatrix bent her head in assent without the slightest hesitation. Her doubts would wait. As she was standing up, she felt a hand under her chin, a hand whose skin was thick and cold. She freezed, half-kneeling, half-standing, allowing her Lord to raise her masked face towards his own.

"Azkaban has dimmed your perceptions," he whispered, so softly that only she could hear him. "The world has more colours than you can conceive, and your brother is a creature of the world. _Non quidem agendo vel movendo, sed potius deserendo vel non impediendo…_"

Bellatrix felt tears welling up in her eyes. The Dark Lord was acknowledging what her fellow Death Eaters had been saying in her face: that she was damaged beyond repair, that she couldn't understand enough to do her lord's wishes…not anymore…

The Dark Lord smiled at her tears.

"Go now," he said. "Go now, my precious, and do my bidding."

The woman's heart lifted at these words, and she stood up immediately.

Lord Voldemort watched her go, but he was not thinking about her; she was his to command and to use, but would never be his to love, though she still hoped. The Dark Lord's thoughts soared above his black servants, above the secret room in which they had held their council, above the trees, above the skies.

_A fake prophecy…a foolish challenge…_

HHH

Hermione's first impression of Regulus' room was that it looked like her own room in her parents' house: like hers, this room was that of an eleven-years-old. Like herself, Regulus had never bothered to strip down old posters, to change the bed-hangings, to throw away his children books. Why bother, when, after all, he had to stay here only two months every year? His real life, Hermione was sure, had been at Hogwarts. This one was just a memory, the memory of a child. A child who would never grow up, and never die.

Checking her watch, she saw that thirty minutes had passed – she didn't have much time left, as she'd agreed with the boys they would meet after one hour.

"_Apparecio_," she said, but nothing happened.

Hermione was crestfallen. So many precautions to hide the room, and it was Regulus', she'd been so sure…It wasn't possible.

"_Apparecio_," she said again, and this time she saw that something had been revealed, a detail so small she'd missed it the first time.

Regulus' room was build like his brother's: a bed, a desk, a huge dark-wood wardrobe. As her spell hit it, a tiny writing had appeared in the lower part of a wardrobe's door, and Hermione knew without looking what she would read there. Her heart beat faster.

_This can't be true_, she thought, kneeling to read the script.

_D. K., 1833_

Daidalos Kirke's furniture was very rare and very expensive, and had become priceless since his death – the secret of its production had disappeared forever. Kirke had manufactured all sort of objects – wardrobes, desks, trunks – and all had astonishing magical qualities, the most useful being the Ubiquitous spell carved into the wood, which ensured that, if the same drawer was open twice with two different keys, it would have two different contents. Barty Crouch's trunk had been a Kirke, according to what Harry had said about it.

Hermione rummaged into her bag, looking for Moody's keys. She found the stuffed weasel first – she'd put it again into her bag, in the case they needed to enter the room again – then the Wizarding first-help kit – a brown paper bag (apparently Ron had stuffed it with leftover sweets from the wedding party) – and, finally, the keys. Inside the first ring of keys was a smaller ring, and Hermione tried it on the wardrobe. It worked.

The first time, she found herself staring at Regulus' clothes. She closed it and tried another key.

A storage place – old Quidditch bats, shoes, paper boxes. She tried a spell, but nothing was revealed.

A forest – Hermione stared, then, cautiously, she stepped into the wardrobe and took a look around. She was in the Forbidden Forest – she could see Hagrid's hut not far away. Making a mental note of this information for further use, she stepped back, closed the door and tried another key.

This time, the wardrobe opened onto a room lost in darkness.

"_Lumos_," she said, and she understood at once that the room was a cell.

No windows, bare stone, manacles on the walls. And, right in the middle of it, a prisoner chained to the floor. Sensing the light, he turned round.

It was Severus Snape.

Hermione screamed.

_Next Update: May 27__th_

_A/N: the idea of the talking door-knob comes, of course, from Lewis Carroll; as for the Ubiquitous wardrobe, Professor Kirke was the owner of the magical wardrobe which opened on Narnia; Daidalos is a well-known Greek inventor of the ancient times: legends say he built talking dolls and the fabled Labyrinth in Crete._

_I'm sorry about skipping the actual wedding, but wizarding weddings of all sorts abound in fanfiction, so if you want to daydream I advise to check them out. Among my favourite, Ramos' _Hinge of Fate_, featuring our beloved couple._

_As for the evil cliffie – well, it is an evil cliffie. Sorry about that. May I redeem myself a little by asking for your advice? Though I know which direction this story will eventually take, I can't decide what Canon!Hermione would do in this situation…I'm open to your suggestions!_

_Further notes:_

_About the French, if someone is interested:_

_Ma pauvre petite_, My poor little one

_Mon petit ange_, My little angel

_Oui_, Yes

_Tout à fait, Madame_, Certainly, Madam

_Merci, c'est parfait, vous pouvez nous laisser_, Thank you, it's perfect, you may leave

_Pas de quoi_, You're welcome

The _Dauphin de France_ was the heir to the throne.

It is very difficult to say what the Celts believed, because we have very little written evidence left and the several tribes were bound to follow different cults. Most of the books out there claiming to introduce you to Celt religion are lying or inventing or exaggerating the known facts.

At least the Irish Celts, though, did probably believe in the possibility of rebirth, and it seems true that they considered the darkness and the winter as a beginning and as an end.

_Macgnimartha Finn_ it's a real book, but you don't get to know what it says, for now J.

_Next Update: May 27__th__ (Hermione and Severus – what else should I say?) _


	6. Chapter 6

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 6 – An Unanswered Challenge**

"Miss Granger, do stop. It is quite annoying."

Hermione closed her mouth. She'd not been aware that she was screaming. Breathing hard, she forced herself to look at the man in front of her.

_He can't do anything to you_, she said firmly to herself. _He's chained to the floor. _

Her eyes scanned the dark figure. In the dim light her forgotten wand was producing, he looked like a faded black-and-white picture. Only his face, very white, stood out from the darkness surrounding him.

_He's injured_, Hermione thought, and she felt a pang a piety deep inside her chest. _Put yourself together, Granger_, she said to herself furiously. _He's a Death Eater, he can stand a broken nose_.

This was what it looked like, anyway, but the blood had dried and she was too far from him to be sure. But there was something else, she thought, something else out of place…

Snape was staring back at her. He saw at once that she'd come from the wedding – the beautiful dress she was wearing, now dusty and wrinkled. She'd done something to her hair, too, and possibly to her face? Did brainy Granger even _know_ what make-up was?

_She looks so grown-up_, Snape thought. _When did this happen? How long have I been here?_

He inhaled deeply, and the pain in his nose was welcome. This was not a time for silly musings; he _knew_ what was happening to her – to all of them. Death could destroy, and this he knew very well; but death could also focus one's mind, and increase one's strenght. It had always been the Dark Lord's weakness not to acknowledge this. And so she had focussed her mind, and increased her strenght. She was now dangerous.

Snape tried to consider his options carefully, but the sight of her, so close, so unexpected, was distracting. And then he saw her gasping. She'd noticed. And surely she hadn't changed enough to keep her mouth shut about it.

"What – what happened to your eyes?" she asked, and he smirked.

Hermione knew at once she'd made a mistake. He'd been studying her, outguessing her, and she'd been predictable. A sudden memory of Moody crossed her mind. _Constance vigilance!_

Still, she _wanted_ to know. She'd seen at first glance that something was wrong with his face, something more serious then the sallow skin and the swollen nose. But then, she'd suddenly _seen_, as though a veil had been lifted from her face: his eyes, those dark tunnels, blank, expressionless, so black that the pupil was hidden, had changed. They seemed – faded. Hermione could think of no other word for it. They had simply lost their colour. They were now very pale, a colour that was not grey and was not blue; a colour that was not a colour.

"This is not of your concern," Snape said, breaking into her thoughts. "We have more urgent matters to discuss."

Hermione turned back into a rational person. He wasn't going to dictate any rule. He was Dumbledore's murderer. If he even deserved something, that something was a fair trial and a life term in Azkaban.

"You're right," she said scathingly. "This is not of my concern. But we have nothing to discuss."

She took a step back and felt blindly behind her for the door of the wardrobe.

"Miss Granger-"

"Do not talk to me. Do not look at me," she whispered.

She only wanted to leave, but she was rooted into place. If Snape had scared her before, now he terrified her. Now she knew he could kill in cold blood – she knew he'd done it before. So many times she'd wondered why Dumbledore had hired him, and there was only one possible answer – that he'd done nothing wrong. That he'd been working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as a scientist; that he'd done it for the sake of research. That he'd never killed, never tortured, never abused.

Only he had.

The certainty of this fact had hit her like a wave of nausea as she stood in the Infirmary and Harry talked about Dumbledore's death. Malfoy was the one who didn't know anything, the little boy playing house in a moribidly wrong way; but Snape – Snape had known – his hand had been steady.

"Could you please be sensible and stop acting like a deranged person?" Snape asked irritably.

And Hermione lost it. She felt so angry – she was shaking with fury.

"Be sensible – be _sensible_? About _what_? I don't want to hear anything from you – you are a murderer! You are despicable – you are a treacherous bastard!"

"I won't be spoken to like this!" he hissed, interrupting her.

"I'LL SPEAK TO YOU LIKE I DAMN PLEASE!" Hermione shouted back. "YOU DON'T GET IT, DO YOU?"

Without even realizing what she was doing, she closed the distance between them, her classy dress sweeping the dust, and she slapped him hard.

He lowered his head slightly.

"Do that again," he whispered, "and you'll be punished."

Hermione stood back, glaring, her heart pumping very fast – all her blood seemed to converge towards the palm of her hand – the hand she'd raised on him. She was still angry, but she was also very afraid; furthermore, she knew that the feelings of daring she was experiencing were not to be trusted – only hormons moving up and down, preparing her for a fight she didn't want to face. She set her jaw and looked hard at his discoloured eyes. He looked right back.

"I trusted you," she said, through gritted teeth. "All these years, I trusted you."

Snape narrowed his eyes.

"And here I thought you had grown. But you've not. You're always the little know-it-all – you're furious about _you _being wrong, not about _me_ being wrong."

Hermione gaped at him.

"Life is not made of O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, Miss Granger. There is more at stake here."

At that moment, they both heard Ron's voice, and footsteps approaching. She rummaged into her bag and found the leftover candies from the wedding.

"Here," she said, emptying it on the floor. "Eat something. You deserve to be treated civilly. We are civil people, unlike the one you serve."

As he opened his mouth to retort, she silenced him.

"I hope I won't see you again," she whispered, then turned round and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

HHH

Harry was waiting for Ron and Hermione in the cavernous kitchen of number 12, Grimmauld Palace. He checked his watch: they were late.

A fire crackled into the gigantic heart, and Harry saw the Horcrux closed in his fist gleam and twinkle through his fingers. Slytherin's locket had been there all right, into a paper box labelled 'trash' surrounded by rats' skeletons and hippogriff droppings. Harry had spotted it after five minutes – had found the locket in another two – and had since sat in the kitchen trying to fight the feeling of disappointment washing over him like a wave.

It had been so simple.

Harry thought about the enchanted lake, the poison, the Inferi lying in the water. Absently, he passed the fingers of his other hand over the fake Hocrux, which lay on the table. Dumbledore had drank that horrible potion for nothing. The Headmaster had looked for Slytherin locket for how long? months?, and Harry had actually seen it before – they could have sent Kreacher to fetch it.

He closed his eyes, fighting the tears, and he felt, as always since Dumbledore's death, his fury at Snape returning. Dumbledore had probably drunk poison, but he may have lived…_I need Severus_, he'd said…and that greasy git…that bastard…oh, how he waited to meet him…

HHH

"Hermione? Are you in there? What happens – you're so pale."

Hermione bit her lip nervously.

"How – how did you get in here? Did the doorknob let you in?"

Ron looked bewildered. Like herself, he seemed a guest of a Buckingham Palace reception who'd suddenly and for no reason lost himself into a catacomb – his fancy dress dusty and thorn, his hair spiked with webs.

"What are you talking about? I used Moody's keys – you do remember, right? The ones you Duplicated for Harry and me?"

Hermione suddenly smiled. She'd been so stupid, negociating her way inside when she'd had the keys in her pocket all the time.

"Of course I remember," she snapped good-humouredly. "I just – inside that wardrobe was the biggest spider I've ever seen."

As she'd know he'd do, Ron took a step back.

"Hope it wasn't as big as the biggest spider _I_ have ever seen," he said, pale under his freckles. "Anyway – let's get back, I saw Harry, he said he'd found it."

Hermione forced a smile unto her face.

"Yes," she said, accepting Ron's hand. "Let's get back."

HHH

Charlie Weasley had had a very pleasant night; he'd met one of Fleur's cousins, blue-eyed Océane, had chatted with her, danced with her, and made love to her, both of them drunk and giggly, behind Mrs. Weasley rose hedge. He had been very sorry to remember, just before falling asleep beside her on the grass, that he'd promised to bring the unicorn back to the Centre before 8 am. Very reluctantly, he'd performed an Alarm Charm on his wand, and now he was up, moving like a ghost between the scattered white tables and the overgrown Wedding Lilies. Absently, he followed his morning rituals, engrained by years spent in the open working with dangerous beasts: checking for new wounds, Vanishing the dirty clothes, showering with very cold water.

As he stepped into the kitchen, ready to accomplish the next point of his daily program – eating a large breakfast – he was surprised to find someone already there: Hermione Granger was sitting at the table, munching on garlic bread and staring into space. She looked as though she had not slept at all.

"Good morning," Charlie said, and she jumped.

"Good morning," she said back, and her voice was tired and – was that possible? – a little wary.

Charlie was about to ask if she'd had any sleep, but he didn't. She was not his little sister, and he didn't want to sound as if he were mothering her. Instead, he busied himself with the kettle.

"Garlic bread? At breakfast?" he asked jovially, without turning around. "Is everything fine?"

"I saw Snape," Hermione said, and immediately put her hands over her mouth.

Charlie turned slowly to face her.

"You were not supposed to," he said, and then he hesitated. "Have you told Harry and my brother where he is?"

Hermione stared at the table, feeling miserable. She'd not intended to share this with anybody – it was too secret, and what if Charlie asked her _when_ she'd met Snape and how she'd opened the wardrobe? She, Harry and Ron would be in so much trouble!

"No," she said tiredly. "They would kill him if they knew." _And kill me for not telling them and leaving him sweets_, she added to herself.

Charlie was about to ask her exactly what she'd feared – when had she gone to Grimmauld Palace and above all how she'd opened the Kirke wardrobe, but she looked so distraught that he felt sorry for her.

"And what did he say?" he asked neutrally, putting two cups of strong black tea on the table.

"He – I don't know – He just" Hermione looked for words that could describe what had happened and found none. How could she explain her anger, her fear, Snape's eyes, the eerie feeling of the undergorund cell?

Charlie's calloused hand closed on her arm and she looked up at him. He looked like a more mature version of Ron, his honest face very concerned.

"Do you want to show me? I won't tell anybody."

Hermione gulped.

"Show you?"

Charlie flicked his wand distractedly and a Pensieve came zooming towards them, landing with a soft _thump_ on the table.

"Moody's," Charlie said. "If you concentrate on the memory, I can put it in here."

Hermione was about to say no when she realised that she was crying. What did her mother always say? _Burden shared is burden halved_. So she nodded and thought hard about Snape, feeling the soft touch of Charlie's wand on her forehead.

HHH

_Harry was flying over a forest. Slytherin's locket was hanging from a gold chain messily tied to the tip of his Firebolt._

"_Why did you put it there?" asked Hermione, yelling at him from the top of a tree. "You could lose it!"_

"_I won't lose, I'm not stupid!" Harry said, but then suddenly the forest was on fire, and he had to dive towards Hermione, who was screaming as she tried to climb higher, away from the smoke._

_As in slow motion, he saw the locket slide down and fall, glittering in the red light…it seemed coated in shimmering blood…_

"Harry? I'm sorry to wake you up, but I need a word."

Harry woke up from his horrible dream at once, breathless and sweating.

"Whassup?" he asked, looking for his glasses on Ron's bedside table.

He put them on, and Remus Lupin swam into focus in front of him. Harry looked around quickly. He and Ron were alone in the room – the twins had not come back from their midnight stroll with two pretty Beauxbatons students. Judging on the light, it couldn't be later than 7 am, but Lupin looked awake and alert. There was a yawn from the second bed: Ron stirred and sat up, stretching his arms.

"I'm sorry to wake you up now, but something happened and I need to leave at once," Lupin said again, and Harry was instantly alert.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We're not sure yet – only just known –"

"Professor, please tell us."

Lupin sighed.

"Fenrir Greyback and several other werewolves attacked a Muggle festival last night. Some sort of music festival – there are dozens of wounded, probably up to nine dead. The Aurors are there, and a group of Ministry Obliviators, and people from St. Mungo's, but they need someone – experienced – to check on the wounds."

Harry looked quickly at Ron: like him, he seemed horrorstruck.

"But the moon wasn't full, last night," Ron pointed out, pale under his freckles.

"Well, as you know," Lupin said sadly, "Greyback doesn't wait to transform anymore. And he has apparently convinced other werewolves to prey on humans with or without full moon. And as they are – we are – stronger than normal men, and armed with a wand…well, you can imagine the carnage…those poor Muggles…"

Seeing Harry's and Ron's expressions, Lupin went on quickly.

"But you must not be concerned with this right now. Harry, I wanted to give you this."

He took a piece of parchment out of the pocket of his second-hand Muggle jeans. Harry took it.

"I found it in Grimmauld Palace, between the pages of a book Dumbledore was reading before…well."

Harry recognized the elegant script at once.

"He wrote this," he said. "Dumbledore wrote it."

"Yes, I think so too, but I can't understand what it is about," answered Lupin, standing up. He tilted his head towards the window – as Ron's room was in the attic, he could see only a portion of blue sky, very clear, the way the sky is when the sun has only just risen.

Ron scrambled on Harry's bed, and they looked at the parchment together.

The sheet was new, the ink still shining; Dumbledore had obviously been working on this days before his death.

_Riddle, a riddle, a prophecy_, it said. The last word was underlined. _But true or fake?_

_Has he read the Book?_ asked the next line nervously. _Yes_, was the answer, underlined twice. And a pointy arrow specified: _Muggle orphanage_.

_I got Sardis and Smyrne_, said the next line. _And Laodicea is Tom himself_.

The next line made Harry's heart jump.

_Philadelphia may refer to Peter…if it does, then there's nothing no one could have done…_

Harry glanced at Ron, who glanced back. There was a list in those words, a list of people or places connected to the Horcruxes.

"What do you reckon?" Ron whispered. "So Wormtail has one of them?"

Harry thought hard. "He could," he whispered back. "He gave one to Malfoy…"

"I see that this makes sense to you," said Lupin mildly, and the two of them jumped.

"Well…"

"It's okay, don't tell. I'll just make a copy for you."

The parchement zoomed back in Lupin's hands, and a moment later there were two of them. He gave one back to Harry, who pocketed it.

"Which book was this in?" asked Ron.

"Some Muggle book…I don't remember which one. I've put it back on the shelf in his study."

"Hermione will kill him for this," said Ron, grinning, as soon as Lupin got out of the room.

HHH

Charlie Weasley saw the memory, and he put it back into Hermione's head. He then insisted that she should drink her tea, and he made breakfast for her – large pieces of home-made bread liberally spread with butter and raspberry jam; scrambled eggs; some leftover roasted ham from the previous evening. Working with dragons was bound to give you a proper appetite.

As they ate, Hermione felt normal again. Charlie didn't say anything about what he'd seen, he just sat there, eating too much and cracking jokes. Hermione had noticed with a jolt that he wasn't wearing any shirt – how shocked had she been, not to notice when she'd first seen him? – and had spent her time surreptiously watching him.

Charlie had so many freckles on his arms and back that one could take them for a skin condition. Hermione didn't mind them, though, nor did she mind the way small droplets ketp falling on his shoulders from his damp hair. He'd obviously showered very quickly, and not bothered to shave. Hermione could see a faint beard on his chin, and wondered when Ron would start shaving. Charlie was not much older, was he?

As Charlie talked and talked about his unicorn, Hermione looked despite herself at his bare chest, then turned back to her tea, blushing. Over the rich fragrance of the full blend, she still detected Charlie's smell – definitely sweat, the weather was so warm already, and alcohol, and another perfume, very faint but intoxicating, a perfume of musk and flowers.

"So, dou you want to come with me? Hermione?"

Hermione choked on her tea, flustered.

"Of course," she answered, hardly knowing what she was saying.

"I've been very lucky to find her, the CCIMB was planning to release her today," Charlie said, as she led her into the garden.

He'd put a shirt on, and Hermione had realised that he was talking about the unicorn. It was traditional to have one at weddings, but many people couldn't afford them.

"The CCIMB?" she echoed, grass caressing her naked feet.

"Centre for Care of Injured Magical Beasts," said Charlie, glancing at her over his shoulder. "I've been talking about it all breakfast – weren't you listening?"

Hermione blushed, but Charlie had already looked away.

"Here you are," he said, beaming, to the waiting unicorn. They had reached the tree to which it was tied and Hermione, even though she'd seen the creature only the day before, was again seized by a feeling of wonder.

The unicorn was blinding white, his horn golden, his eyes alive with human intelligence. It seemed to be waiting for Charlie, but patted the ground nervously when it saw them approaching.

"Would you like to untie her?" Charlie asked. "I'm sure she would prefer your touch."

Hermione walked forward, transfixed, and put a hand on the unicorn's silky mane.

"And about Snape – he surely was staring at you."

She turned round horrified, still patting the creature, which was leaning into her caress.

"He was not! I mean, we were staring at each other, it was so…unexpected."

Charlie looked unconvinced.

"And now, what will you do?"

Hermione turned back towards the unicorn.

"Nothing," she said. "As I told him, I hope I won't see him again. He was my teacher, I can't stand to think about what he did. I'm still wondering…"

"…why he did it?" Charlie said softly, and Hermione jumped as she heard her own thought sopekn out loud. "Hermione, this is obvious. He may have been sincere in his repentance in the beginning – I wouldn't know – but You-Know-Who does not suffer any desertion. Snape was marked as his servant, he'll die as his servant. He has no choice, and – and we have no choice either."

Hermione looked back at him: his expression had hardened.

"But I understand. He's been my teacher too."

Hermione didn't answer.

"Promise me you're not going to seek him again," said Charlie, and he sounded stern, as the grown-up he was.

Again, Hermione said nothing, and Charlie frowned.

"I know you've done a lot of dangerous things with Ron and Harry, but this is a battle you can't win. You've not seen enough of the world to challenge a man like Snape."

"How do you know?" Hermione asked, a bit defiantly. She hadn't thought about _doing_ something about Snape, exactly, she surely hadn't formed any plan; but now that Charlie said she _couldn't_, she felt rebellious.

"Hermione," said Charlie, and then paused; he seemed uncertain on how to phrase his thoughts. "You've been stroking that unicorn for ten minutes – you think I can't tell what it means?"

Hermione blushed furiously. Without looking at Charlie, she walked up to the tree and tapped on the knot with her wand, unleashing the unicorn.

"Here she is," she said, and she started to walk away.

Charlie put a hand on her shoulder as she passed him, but she broke into a run and didn't turn back.

HHH

Harry, Ron were standing in the kitchen, where renmants of food and alcohol had been dangerously balanced on the table and the chairs. The song of the first birds resonated from the open window. The Weasley's clock, propped against the kitchen door, steadily said _Mortal peril_. The rests of Hermione's and Charlie's breakfast were in the sink, and Ron stared at them.

"Who's up this early?" he asked, and, right on cue, Hermione arrived into the kitchen, looking slightly harassed.

"Where were you? And who-" asked Ron at once, but then he glimpsed Charlie out of the window: he was trying to convince the unicorn to get into the Apparition Dome. "You had breakfast with Charlie?"

"Never mind that," said Harry quickly, noticing Hermione's guilty look and sensing the upcoming storm. "What do you reckon?" he added, forcing Lupin's parchment into her hand.

Hermione, being Hermione, seized the importance of it at once.

"It's the key of a riddle," she said slowly, re-reading Dumbledore's words.

"What do Leodice and Philadelphia mean?"

"Well," she said, ignoring Ron, who was muttering under his breath. "Philadelphia is an American city. And Leo- Laodicea," she corrected, looking at the parchement, "rings a bell…I think she was a queen…but I need the library."

"America?" said Harry. "Tell me we don't have to go that far."

Again, the immensity of his task overpowered him. The Horcruxes could be hidden everywhere in the world…and what did he know about the world? He hadn't even known that there were wizards outside England until the Quidditch World Cup!

"I don't think we do," said Hermione, biting her lip. "That country has no appeal for a wizard like V-Voldemort. It's too new. It has no magical tradition." She stopped for a moment, looking at the parchment again. "No, Europe is the key – possibly the middle East, where magic was born."

"Middle-East? Isn't there a Muggle war there?"

"Yes, but…I heard that name somewhere…"

"How come you and Charlie were alone together?" said Ron again.

Both boys thought they saw Hermione blush, but as she was hidden behind the parchment they couldn't be sure.

"Drop it," said Harry, annoyed. "What matters now is that letter."

"I know, but-"

_Has he read the Book_, mouthed Hermione slowly to herself. Then she snapped out of her reverie and took Ron by the sleeve.

"Where is Ottery St. Catchpole?"

_A/N Ok, here it is. I hope no one out there will say _No way!_ to Hermione's reaction…I thought that Snape's unnerving mood could trigger Angry!Hermione. After all, we've seen in the books she can be very passionated._

_According to medieval Bestiaries, unicorns could only be seen by virgin women; JKR doesn't stretch it this far, since Hagrid and Professor Whathername (Grubbly-Pank?) can both touch them, but it is pointed out that unicorns prefer women's touch._

_Next Update: May 31st (Dumbledore's riddle is solved, and the Order decised how to deal with Snape)_


	7. Chapter 7

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 7 – The Never-Fading Roses**

In the end, they agreed that, though walking in that summer day looked very pleasant, it was safer to Apparate. Ron, who did know the place, went first, quickly followed by Hermione and Harry, who Apparated togheter – Harry wasn't sure he could find a place he'd never seen, but Hermione was confident it was possible, having memorised volumes on the theory of Apparition.

"Theory always helps in real life," she'd said, annoyingly smug.

"Yeah, well." Harry glanced around to check if they were indeed alone – Mrs. Weasley would skin them alive if she caught them sneaking away. "Tell me again how memorising Mirindica Glaswell's Third Rule on Disembodiment will help me Apparating in a place I've never seen."

"It's _Miranda_ Glaswell, and"

"Hermione – I was joking. Let's go."

They Apparated in the little cemetery, as Ron had pointed out that it would be deserted in a very hot and dusty morning. Harry looked around him, and saw that they were indeed alone.

"What do you want from this place, anyway?" asked Ron, as Hermione took the parchement out from her pocket and looked at it again.

"I need the church," she said absently.

Harry's eyes were caught by a very white tomb, the only one covered in blossoming flowers. In the heat, most of the plants which adorned the other graves had faded a little.

"Hang on," he said, approaching it.

The stone was almost hidden by the most beautiful flowers he'd seen in his life: red roses, white roses, lilies, sunflowers, daisies, forget-me-not and many others which he could not name.

_To our beloved_

_Cedric Diggory_

_1977-1995_

Harry felt his throat close.

_The stars and the rivers and the waves of the sea_

_Call you back from your untimely death._

Hermione took his hand steadily, and Ron stood by his other side, his head bowed.

"Come on Harry," he said. "Let's go find this shurth."

"It's _church_, Ron. And we don't need to find it – it's just there. But if Harry wants to"

"No, let's go," said Harry, fighting to push back the tears.

Cedric had died for nothing, just like Dumbledore, he thought. And again, the urge to stop Voldemort, to punish him, to destroy him became overwhelming. There was a kind of desperate hatred in Harry's heart, a feeling he'd never experienced before. It was a force, it kept him focused, but it was a black and sticky wave – it came and then it went away, leaving behind it only ruined sand.

Harry let go of Hermione's hand and took two steps backward, almost staggering. It seemed wrong to be there, and it seemed wrong to go away, at least without saying anything to Cedric. Feeling stupid, Harry kneeled quickly by the grave.

"Hi," he said. "I – I did as you asked. I brought you back. I'm sorry. I'll find him for you."

Getting up he felt more stupid than ever, but Ron and Hermione didn't say anything.

"So, what do you need a church for?" he asked quickly.

"Maybe it's a stupid idea, but look at this sentence," said Hermione, pointing on the parchment as they walked slowly towards the gate of the graveyard.

"_Has he read the Book?_" Harry read. "Why the capital?"

"There is one book Muggles call the Book," she said quietly.

"The Bible? But why would Voldemort read the Bible?"

Hermione pointed at the next words.

"He grew up in a Muggle orphanage in the forties. They probably read it to the orphans. So he would know it. Think about it – it may well be the only book Voldemort read before coming to Hogwarts."

Ron was looking oblivious, but Hermione ignored him.

"I just want to check something."

They had arrived in front of the wooden door of the village church. Harry pushed it, and stepped inside. He had rarely been inside a church – the Dursley usually went once a year, on December 24th – and this one was no different from the one he scarcely remembered. Very old, very empty stone walls; lines of benches; the altar; and, looking down at them, a huge crucifix.

He felt very calm and very cold at once. Jesus' blood was so red – he turned round, and saw that Ron was walking down the aisles, gaping.

"What's this place?" he asked.

"It's a religious place. Don't touch the altar down there," Harry said. "Yes, that thing. It may be sacred."

Meanwhile, Hermione was turning page after page of the black Bible she'd found on a bench.

"I knew it!" she said suddenly. "Come here!"

Both boys went to look over her shoulder, and she read out loud.

"_And unto the angel of the church in Sardis write; These things saith he that hath the seven Spirits of God, and the seven stars; I know thy works, that thou hast a name that thou livest, and art dead."_

Hermione raised her head and looked at them, smiling broadly.

"And there's more : _and unto the angel of the church of the Laodiceans write; These things saith the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of the creation of God._"

"Er…" said Harry.

"Does this actually make sense ?" asked Ron, peering at the book.

"Of course it does!" Hermione said excitedly. "This is the Book of Revelation, but it is really the book of the apocalypsis: St. John had a vision about the end of the world, and God told him to share his visions with the seven churches of Asia."

"So Laodicea and Sardis are cities?" asked Harry.

"Yes, definitely. And Philadelphia is another city of ancient Asia, look : _I am Alpha and Omega, the first and the last: and, What thou seest, write in a book, and send it unto the seven churches which are in Asia; unto Ephesus, and unto Smyrna, and unto Pergamos, and unto Thyatira, and unto Sardis, and unto Philadelphia, and unto Laodicea._"

"What _is_ this book?" said Ron, frowning.

"It's the Bible, a sacred book for Christian muggles. It talks about the creation of the world, the history of the Jews, the visions of the prophets and the life of Jesus, who is considered as a son of God," said Hermione, but Harry wasn't listening to her.

"Can you re-read that passage?" he asked, and she did. "Don't you see? There are _seven _churches. Give me that parchment again – thanks."

Harry scanned Dumbledore's words quickly.

_I got Sardis and Smyrne_, it said. _And Laodicea is Tom himself_.

"What does the text say about Laodicea?"

Hermione, her finger on the page, looked for the right passage, while Ron fidgeted impatiently beside her.

"_To the angel of the church in Laodicea write: The Amen, the faithful and true Witness, the Beginning of the creation of God_-"

For Harry, everything was suddenly making sense.

"Stop," he said quietly. "It's describing the piece of soul still inside Voldemort," he said quietly. "The one which created all the others."

He fell silent, and the church seemed suddenly very dark and cold.

"Let's get out of here," Harry said. "We should go back to the Burrow – it's too dangerous to be around in the open."

"What about the Bible?" said Hermione, and Harry saw that she hated the idea of leaving it behind, but at the same time was afraid to steal it.

"Just take it," he said.

"I can't steal it!" she protested.

"You stole from Snape's storerooms, didn't you?"

"But this is a church!"

"I'm sure that God will forgive you-"

"Oh, Merlin!" said Ron. "Aren't we wizards?"

He tapped the black Bible with his wand and whispered "_Duplicata_". Immediately the book stretched in his hands and snapped in two, both parts taking the original shape.

"There," he said, tossing one to Hermione and putting the second one on the bench. "Let's go."

HHH

"Where were you?" asked a very strained Molly Weasley the minute they set foot inside the Burrow. "There are French everywhere – got to feed them – I want you to put the tables outside, Ron, and the dishes – not you, Harry, dear."

"I'd like to help, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry, thinking that they would finish quicker and have more time to pour over the duplicated Bible.

"You are very kind, but now he has come of age Ronald can take care of this alone, can't you, Ronnie?" She turned to look at her son with a ferocious stare. "And, Harry, Remus has just come back – he said he wants to talk to you."

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley."

Harry and Hermione made their way through the garden. It was past ten o' clock, and most of the guests seemed to be up. Their sallow faces and blue rings under their eyes confirmed that the feast had continued the whole night.

"Where all this people here last night?" asked Hermione.

She was sallow and puffy-eyed herself, but she truly couldn't remember that so many people she didn't know had been present.

"Yes. How much did you drink?" asked Harry, smiling.

"It's just – I guess I didn't sleep enough."

"I'd say you didn't sleep at all," said Harry, glancing sideways.

Hermione bit her lip, but didn't answer. She still could believe about her encounter with Snape last night; she couldn't believe she'd hit him. Snape had been helpless, he'd asked her for help – _In his own twisty way, but he did_, she reminded herself sharply – and she'd turned him down. Wouldn't the world be different, she wondered, if we just would be there for each other?

"I was thinking about Malfoy," she lied. "Wondering why we didn't help him."

Harry stared at her.

"He didn't – he wouldn'-t," he said after a moment, and he hesitated.

"Harry? Hermione? It is not possible to be alone for one minute around here," said a voice on their left, making them both jump.

Harry spotted them first. Lupin and Tonks were sitting cross-legged in front of a small, greenish tent. Tonks was still clothed with a canary yellow pyjama which clashed with her pink hair, but Lupin had the expression of one who's been up for hours and has seen too much already.

"I said Molly to send Harry this way, honey," he said, and gestured for them to sit down.

"How bad is it, Professor Lupin?" asked Harry at once as he spread his legs on the grass.

"Very bad, but we sorted out what we could. Two-hundred people have been Obliviated; another five-hundred have been put in magical stasis waiting for their turn. There are thirty dead, up to one hundred people injured."

Hermione put her hands on her mouth, horrified.

"What about the Muggle police?" asked Harry, his hands clenching into fists.

"They have the order to stay away. Their Minister is a smart one."

Hermione still looked worried.

"But surely they had to say something," she said. "Dead and wounded…"

"Apparently their papers talk about a food poisoning. Bad eggs or something." She yawned, and then took Lupin's hand and looked pointedly at Harry and Hermione, who stood up immediately.

"Harry," said Lupin quietly, "Minerva says that Dumbledore's portrait is awake."

Harry froze.

"Has he said anything?"

"I don't know yet."

"I'll go," Harry said. "I'll go to Hogwarts now."

Lupin started to object, but Harry turned on his heels and ran towards the house. Hermione made to follow him, but Lupin took her wrist.

"And I thought _you_ should know," he said soflty, "that the Order will meet this afternoon to discuss Snape's future."

Hermione had for a moment a shell-shocked expression on her pale face; then she turned and followed Harry.

HHH

The old man walked slowly through the ancient square. Every few paces he stopped and leaned on his stick, panting.

"You're getting too old for this," he muttered to himself. "The world forgetting, by the world forgot."

Slowly but surely, the man melted into the crowd of tourists who were looking up at the Abbey with amazed looks on their faces. He went unnoticed: he was not that kind of 'typical' or 'suggestive' old men people wanted to have a picture with; he was just very tiny, his hair very white, his clothes had seen better days. One could think he was just an old widower who'd been to the market, and now headed quietly home.

The man passed through the magnificent gates and into the Abbey. He stopped for a moment, gazing at the ceiling.

"But who can be trust'd, eh, who can be trust'd, to pick your asphodels just the way they ought to be pick'd?" he muttered, patting absently the pocket of his shabby jacket. "Only you and me have seen it all," he said fondly, patting the church's wall.

He proceeded quietly keeping himself on the left aisle. Bunch of tourists, perched here and there on the dark benches like colourful birds, were chattering to each other in hushed voices, reading leaflets and taking pictures.

The wall alongside which the old man was walking was covered with gravestones and memorials. Some of them were so old that the carved words were blackened and faded. The man finally came to a stop and pointed his stick to one of them.

"_Aprimi_," he said softly, and then he walked forwards, into the wall, and disappeared.

A little French boy took his dad by the sleeve.

"_Papa_," he said, slumbering on his words, "An old man has just passed throught that wall."

"Nicolas," the man said, in a stern voice.

"It's true! Just there, through this big stone."

The boy's mother smiled and went to touch the wall.

"He has entered through Isaac Pitman's memorial?" she said. "I hope not."

"Who was Isaac Pitman?" asked the little boy, looking up at the stone. And then, without waiting for an answer, he read slowly out loud. "_His aims were steadfast, his mind original, his work prodigious, the achievement world-wide. His life was ordered in service to God and duty to man._"

HHH

"We'll Apparate to Hogsmaede and then go to Hogwarts by broomstick," said Harry in a very final tone. "We'll be faster without you, and you can start researching" he lowered his voice "a magical way to destroy the locket."

"Oh, but," said Hermione, annoyed.

"Come on, you hate flying," said Ron, dismissevely.

Hermione bit her lip.

"Ok," she said. "But whatever he says, promise me you'll come back here – no rash decisions, please, and no heroics."

"Yes Mum," said Ron, rolling his eyes, and Harry grinned.

Hermione watched them go with a sense of foreboding, and then went back to her room and sat down on the bed, pulling a copy of _Destroying and Ruining_ into her lap.

Ten minutes later she was sleeping.

HHH

Elphias Doge shook his head.

"It is not about ethics," he said, in his wheezy voice. "Not anymore."

"Isn't it always about ethics, though?" asked Hestia Jones, standing up. "I mean, are we still fighting for the Light – are we still Dumbledore's men if we kill and torture our enemies?"

Lupin sighed, and felt Tonks' fingers interlace with his own under the table. It was going to be a long discussion.

"We have killed and tortured, on occasion," said Moody harshly. "We're at war."

"Even wars have codes," insisted Hestia Jones. "And you must admit that the intrinsic value-"

"Look, this academic blabbering is very good and all," said a voice from a corner, and Kingsley Shacklebolt stood up. He was next to Hestia Jones and two feet taller than she was. "But we have a prisoner, and he knows lots of things which could save our necks out there. So I say, let's make him talk."

"Where is Minerva?" asked Dedalus Diggle, raising his voice to cover Hestia Jones' furious retort. "I think we should hear her opinion, as she formally is Dumbledore's successor."

Professor McGonagall was not there; Moody proposed a pause, and everybody agreed. They stretched their legs, and had some tea. As the tension was starting to dissolve – someone had Summoned some Firewhisky Chocolate Cauldrons the members of the Order heard the front door open, and Mrs. Black starting to chat merrily. A brisk voice answered her, and then there were brisk steps coming downstairs into the kitchen.

"Sorry I was late. Albus' portrait woke up." Minerva McGonagall took off her travelling cloak as muttering arose from every corner.

"And did you ask…" said Lupin, nervously.

"Yes, I asked," she said, her eyes flickering briefly towards a Daily Prophet laying on the table.

A black-and-white photograph of Severus Snape glared back at her, his black eyes like pools of ink on the page.

_A/N _

_Hi! I'm sorry about the brief delay in posting this – what a day! – though I must say that here we're still Thursday 31st, so it looks all right. And then sorry for yet another cliffie, I seem to be in the mood for them. Thank you so much for your lovely reviews; I'd like to answer to those who had questions or critics, but now I'm too tired…I'll do that next week. Just keep reviewing and pointing out what's canon and what's not, your opinions are helping me very much._

_The poetry on Cedric's tomb is from the Greek poet Pindar (frg. 136)._

_About the Bible – woow, so many got it right! Was it too easy? I took the idea of Voldemort knowing well the Bible from Cassandra Claire, and I think it's very plausible too. I'd like to point out, though, that this fic won't pretend to know any religious truth about the Bible, and won't interpret in any way the Book of Revelation. So please don't be offended if the interpretation of the verses is not compliant with your faith – it's a fiction, not a theological text._

The world forgetting, by the world forgot_ is from Alexander Pope_

Aprimi _in Italian means_ Open up for me

_Next update : June 6th_


	8. Chapter 8

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 8 – _Flamma Vitae_**

Hermione awoke as suddenly as if someone had shouted in her ear. She felt like she had not slept at all – however tired it was, her brain had thought and thought while she slept, and now she had a plan, fully formed. She tried to etch it into her mind, the way she forced herself to remember her dreams when she woke up.

A week ago, when she'd first heard about Snape's capture, she'd foolishly thought about taking Harry's appearance and work alongside Moody during the interrogation. Sitting on Ginny's bed, she smiled about it, remembering the details of her little fantasy, which culminated with a sobbing Snape stating how much he'd been mistaken and how he would do everything in his power to help them.

Now she had no such illusions. The man she'd seen in Regulus' wardrobe was anything but repentant and humble. And Charlie was right: she was only a little girl in front of him. _But sometimes_, she thought, picking up her book on destructive spells, which had fallen to the floor while she'd slept, _sometimes little girls have to stand up and fight, because no one else is there_.

Hermione opened the book in her lap and took out a sheet of parchement from its pages: some notes she'd taken on it previously, and where now useless. She couldn't think well without writing down, though, so she grasped one of Ginny's quills.

_Goals_, she wrote in her neat writing just under her forgotten notes. She underlined this twice.

_1. Find Horcruxes_

_2. Destroy Horcruxes_

_3. Kill Voldemort_

Hermione frowned, trying to recall a reasoning which had seemed most logical in her sleep. She didn't know anything about Horcruxes. She couldn't hope to find out – even ambitious Tom Riddle hadn't found any reference on them. Therefore, any hint on how they could be destroyed should be deduced from past events.

_Ring_, she wrote, and then she stopped, her quill in mid-air. She didn't know how Dumbledore had cleared the ring of its evil content, but it hadn't been very effective. The ring had still been alive when Dumbledore had picked it up, and it had cursed his hand off.

_Diary_, she wrote next, and bit her lip. What had Harry said about that diary? He'd just defeated the Basilisk…yes, that was it: Basilisk's venom. One of the most powerful poisons, if not the most powerful, known by potioneers.

Hermione's heart thumped faster; she felt a sense of urgency, but she was so tired that she just wanted to curl up and sleep.

_Just the next step_, she fretted._ Just the next step._

So they needed Basilisk's venom. It was, she recalled, a Class-A Non Tradeable material. It was illegal to own it and to use it except on Ministry's grounds and for Ministry approved experiments, and not even Snape, as long as she knew, had some in his dungeon.

_He wouldn't want to be found with it_, she thought. _Someone with his history._

Hermione breathed deeply and drew a pointy arrow on her parchment. Where could she find Basilisk's poison?

_a) buy_, she wrote.

But this was difficult. Surely some store in Knockturn Alley sold this kind of products – illegal poisons, human marrow, first menstrual blood – but it would cost a lot of money. Furthemore, they wouldn't sell to whoever came to their door.

_b) hatch one_.

How long did the whole process take, she wondered. And it was illegal. And bound to be difficult and dangerous.

_c) synthetize_.

Slughorn had once mentioned that it was possible to create synthetic blood in a Potions lab. She had no idea whatsoever on Basilisk's poison, though.

She drew another pointy arrow. _Therefore_, she thought. _Come on, almost there, a last effort and I can sleep…_

Therefore, she needed Snape. And Snape was going to be tortured today.

Hermione stood up, and her book, parchement and quill fell to the ground with a thump. She started towards the door, then froze.

She could not take the risk for him to lose his mind; but as Hermione, and without mentioning the Horcruxes, she could not convince the Order. She had to go there as Harry and stop them. Then she would bring Snape at Hogwarts and force him to work with her.

Suddenly, she laughed; an high-pitched, nearly hysterical sound.

This plan was the only one she had, the only which could work – and didn't seem any better than her silly Florence Nightingale fantasy.

HHH

"Yes. He doesn't remember anything after last summer, after Sirius' death. That's when the portrait was painted," she added, looking reproachfully at Arthur Weasley.

Mr Weasley gazed distractedly around the table.

"That would have been – predictable – under other circumstances," he said, though no one was listening to him – the members of the Order had their heads togheter and were whispering to each other. "I hoped, however, that Dumbledore would have taken further precautions. But of course, he didn't know that he had so little time left."

"He did say, however," continued Headmistress McGonagall, raising her voice slightly, "That using UQMs on _anyone_ is immoral."

"On that, we all agree," said Moody, shooting an angry look at Shacklebolt. "But a decision must be taken quickly. Those in favour," he said, his magical eye scanning the room behind him, "raise your hands, please."

Remus Lupin clasped Tonks' hand as he counted the votes. Many people were raising their hands…most of them. Hating himself, Lupin added his own.

"So that's it," said Moody, his gnarled hand still raised.

And without another word, he stepped right through the wall of the kitchen, next to the hearth.

HHH

In Bath, a little child called Nicolas was still staring at the wall through which an old man had just disappeared. He couldn't know that just behind it, a few inches from where he was standing, was the secret laboratory of one of the greatest Master of Potions ever known in the United Kingdom.

Theodore Carter, meanwhile, unaware of the interest he had arosen in little Nicolas, was checking his desk for letters; but of course, there was none. For years now he'd had only two correspondants, and at the end of June one of them had died, and the other had disappeared.

Carter passed his wrinkled fingers on the wood out of habit, and then sighed.

"Blessed is the man who expects nothing," he mumbled.

Moving very carefully, he walked to a shelf and took out an emtpy glass jar, in which he put the asphodels tucked into the pocket of his shabby jacket.

His hand still curled around the jar, he squinted at the room. But of course, this survey too was an old habit now useless. It had been eighteen years since Theodore Carter had brewed a potion. His laboratory had the appearance of a museum. Everything was sparkling clean, and nothing was out of place. It was very silent.

Carter knew that all his habits had no point; that he was just a very old man waiting his own death alone – his eyes unable to distinguish the colour of his ingredients, his hands too unsteady to handle them. He knew he survived, day after day, lulling his brain into thinking he was still the young man he'd once been, a very long time ago. For nearly two hundred years, his gestures had not changed. Third on his list, look lovingly at a very old canvas showing Rialto's bridge at sunset; fourth on his list, limp quietly towards a little window on the farthest wall.

It looked like an ordinary window, except that it was made with a reddish glass, through which the day's bright light shone like blood into the hidden room. No one knew that into it, blown into the very glass, was the last potion Theodore Carter had brewed.

As a child, little Theodore had loved Muggle fairytales. There was one he particularly loved; for years he'd asked her mother to read it to him, night after night.

It was a tale about a very rich king. This king had everything he could have wished, but above all he had a son, a handsome boy, very brave and very clever, whom he loved very dearly.

Alas, one day the young man was cursed: a witch said that he could never be happy again until he married the Princess of Peacocks.

Thus, ambassadors were sent, but they returned empty-handed: no one had ever heard about the Princess of Peacocks.

To the king's dismay, the young man set off himself to find his love; as the prince himself told briefly in the end, he had to pass mountains and rivers and seas, in order to find his bride.

It was a very strange tale: it didn't focus on the prince's journey, which would have been very exciting to tell – dragons, one-eyed old women, combs turning into forests; instead, it described the life of the king in his saddened palace.

Every day, the story said, the king would check on a little bottle he kept under his bed: in it was a magic brew. If the liquid was red, the prince was alive; but if the prince had suddenly died, the liquid would turn black.

Theodore Carter had worked for years to re-create a brew to that effect: that piece of magic had been the first to provoke the curiosity of the child he'd once been. After years of efforts, the _Flamma Vitae_ had been a reality. However, as the brew could be meddled with, and thus endangering the life of the person, Carter had decided to keep its existence secret. A Master of Venice had taught him how to mix the brew into a pan of glass, and Carter had disguised his invention under the aspect of colourful windows ever since.

He stopped under the window and looked up at it. His pupil had been very young when the _Flamma Vitae_ had been made, and normally it was of a fiery red. But now, even as Carter watched, it was turning to black.

The old man could do nothing at all. He stared, and mumbled a silent prayer.

HHH

Hermione checked her appearance in the mirror, and gasped. And Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, gasped back at her.

Every detail was perfect. Unmanageable black hair and huge, astonished green eyes. She touched her forehead – but, of course, she could not feel the scar. The Glamour only worked for others – the Caster could never feel it. It was the strangest feeling of her life; she felt under her fingers her own bushy hair, but in the mirror, into this other, reversed world, Harry Potter was touching his own unruly black locks. And if she grasped the strands closest to her shoulders, the mirror Harry only moved his boyish fingers through thin air.

_This is dangerous,_ Hermione thought. What if she ran her fingers through her hair, as she often did, in front of Snape? It would take him two minutes to recognize her nervous gesture, or at least to see that it was a woman's gesture. Or maybe he wouldn't think nothing at all, Hermione said to herself, staring absently at her fake image into the mirror. Maybe he would guess that something was amiss and stay on his guards. Maybe he would think it was Bill; but then again, Bill always had his long hair in a tight ponytail.

_You're being paranoid_, thought Hermione. _Why should he recognize you? And what if he does?_

But she knew the answer to that question. She didn't want him to think he was dealing with Hermione Granger; she preferred to be Harry in front of him. Snape had never, in six years, respected her as a person. And she'd never revolted, out of – out of what? Respect, good manners, an O on her poisons essay. But as Harry she had a chance. Snape would not expect Harry to carry out his orders, would not speak to him like a little child. He would taunt him and insult him, possibly, but Hermione was ready. She'd had her own dosage of taunting and insulting. Furthermore, she liked the idea of being a boy. People did not speak to boys like they did to girls. Boys didn't blush, boys didn't ask 'please'. Hermione was quite certain that Harry was a virgin, but Charlie would never say to _him_ not to go after Snape because of this, now, would he?

She looked around the room and spotted Ginny's scissors lying on her messy desk. Before thinking about what she was doing, Hermione picked them up and cut a large chunk of her hair. Then she froze, and looked instinctevly into the mirror in front of her.

Harry looked back, very pale. He held a pair of pink scissors in his left hand. His right hand was closed into a fist, but his fingers didn't grasp anything.

Hermione glanced down at her hand and saw a strand of her chestnut hair lying there. It looked quite dead, and she muffled a despairing sound.

_It's just hair_, said a stern voice in her head. _It will grow back_.

"If I live long enough," said Hermione, out loud.

_So that's something to live for. Remember it for you interviews to the Prophet – Hermione Granger, hero of this war, tells it all: "How I Survived Thinking about my Hair"_

Hermione giggled. She had a sudden image of Rita Skeeter, in banana-yellow robes, clicking her red nails on her pad – "So, Miss Granger, would you say that the tragic loss of your hair acted as a symbol of the ravaged Wizarding World, giving you the courgae to affront You-Know-Who?"

The image vanished, and Hermione closed her eyes. If she as going to do that, she could not afford any mistake. She'd already showered vigourously and put on Harry's most dirty clothes in order to mask her own perfume to Lupin – she was not going to back off because of this.

Still with her eyes closed, she grabbed another strand of her hair and cut it off neatly, one inch from her ear. Then another. And another.

All around her, chestnut locks appeared out of thin air and then fell gracefully and slowly to the ground, until the floor was parsemed with tiny chunhs of what Hermione had once been.

HHH

The pain stopped as suddenly as it had started. Snape felt his limbs relax and he breathed deeply. His head pounded, and he felt blood in his mouth, but he wasn't giving up, and he wasn't going crazy. Not yet.

He opened his eyes, and the bright light in the room hit them like a knife. He closed them again. There was the sound of someone walking, and a second later he felt Moody's hand closing on his wrist, checking on his pulse.

Then Moody stood up again and walked a few paces away.

"_Crucio_," said his harsh voice.

HHH

Hermione Apparated in front of Number 12, Grimmauld Palace and looked warily around her, but everything seemed quiet. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Oh, dear, it's you – would you mind trying this on? Only you have the same build of my little Sirius, and it would be most helpful-"

"Not now, Mrs. Black," said Hermione firmly, and her heart stopped for a moment when she heard her own voice; then she remembered that the Glamour didn't work on her.

She stood nervously in the hall for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do, but then she heard – well, there was nothing to hear, but she had the strangest feeling she could perceive the unnatural silence of many people.

Trusting her instincts, she ran downstairs, into the kitchen, and gasped. At least thirty persons were there, standing nervously or sitting around the big oak table. Most of them, she didn't recognize; but she saw at once that Moody wasn't there.

Her eyes darted to Lupin's, who was sitting next to Tonks. He seemed unhappy to see her.

"Where are they?" she asked, and everyone turned round and stared at her.

"In the storeroom," said Lupin, pointing towards the hearth.

Hermione walked towards it, people melting like ghosts to let her pass. Scanning the wall, she saw that on on of the bricks was scarped the shape of a tiny amphora. Breathing deeply, she stepped forward, and passed through the wall.

She didn't notice anything about the room in which she had arrived: a scream pierced her ears, and she saw immediately that it was coming from the man twitching on the floor – his head was thrashing from side to side, his long black hair whipping the air.

Without thinking about what she was doing, Hermione launched herself at Moody, who staggered; his wand fell off his hand and clattered at his feet; the scream stopped abruptly.

Hermione didn't look at Moody. Her eyes were fixating on Snape which was taking quick, irregular lungful of air. He brought his bounded hands to his face, and Hermione saw that his writs were bleeding.

"How could you?" she asked quietly, keeping her eyes on her former Professor.

It was Mr. Weasley's voice which answered her; turning round, she saw that a dozen persons had followed her into the storeroom.

"Sometimes we are forced to make difficult choices, Harry."

Hermione was sharply reminded of her plan. She was Harry now, and she could not afford to be distracted.

"But you are the Order of the Phoenix!" she said forcefully. "Dumbledore's men!"

"Don't talk about things you can't understand," said Shacklebolt, harshly.

"Well, Dumbledore did say, actually," continued Headmistress McGonagall, raising her voice slightly, "that he highly disapproves of UQM. And that on this matter, as on all others, he trusted Harry's judgement."

Hermione breathed with relief, and the room went unnaturally quiet. Only Snape's coughing broke the silence.

"He said to trust Harry's judgement on everything?" asked Molly Weasley in the end. "But that's too much responsability for him! He's just a child!"

Hermione looked at her intently, then realized that Mrs Weasley was talking about _her_. She had to say something.

"I am not a child," she answered, aiming for some coldness in her voice.

"Still, you have no experience on how to preside the Order of the Phoenix," said Hestia Jones, looking worried and scared.

"And I don't want to preside it," said Hermione, trying not to panick. What would Harry want? "As some of you know, Professor Dumbledore and I were working togheter before his death. My task is to continue that work. And _your_ task is to continue _your_ work," she added, putting some emphasis on her last words. Whatever Harry wanted, surely he didn't need the meddling of the Order. She looked at the people around her and felt a thrill into her chest. It was working. They all thought she was Harry, and therefore they seemed ready to hear her say, and possibly to agree with her. "We lost the Headmaster, but the war is not over. And we can win. We will win. We must continue our fight whatever happens."

"So what do you propose, Harry?" asked Lupin, and Hermione, unconspicously, took a step back. She still wasn't sure he couldn't smell her for who she was.

"I'll go back to Hogwarts," she said, trying to sound as if this was something she'd been planning to do for weeks. "I need the Potions dungeon. And I'll take him with me."

Everybody's eyes flickered on Snape, who turned his head on the side and spat some blood on the floor.

"You didn't manage to learn anything in five years, Potter," he said, and his words seemed to echo into the silent kitchen. "The moment for Remedial Potions has long passed."

Hermione didn't answer him. Professor McGonagall was talking quietly with Moody and the Weasleys; Hestia Jones, Dedalus Diggle and Kingsley Shacklebolt closed in to listen. Behind them, Hermione saw Mundungus seizing a bottle of wine lying on a shelf. Her eyes turned back to the group, but they were speaking too quietly for her too hear. She saw most of them nod – only Shacklebolt looked unconvinced. Then Professor McGonagall asked her to come nearer, ad she did.

"We've always trusted Albus' judgement," she said, and Hermione thought she looked very agitated. "And of course, you've proven yourself capable of dealing with dangerous situations."

Her eyes looked past Hermione's shoulder, to where Snape was standing.

"We will, therefore, bring Severus to Hogwarts, and allow you to work with him, but there are conditions." She suddenly looked very stern. "For your own safety, do you understand, Harry?"

"Yes," said Hermione, her heart thumping wildly.

"You can work on your own, and leave the castle, but we want to know where you are _at all times_."

"Ok."

"If you want Snape to assist you with a potion – though I don't know how you'll persuade him to help – he will have to wear those chains," she said, pointing at a bundle of iron in the corner.

"And you need to be vigilant, boy," added Moody, poking Hermione in the chest – she felt his finger between her breasts, but Moody hadn't noticed nothing amiss. "They prevent magic attacks, but not physical ones. Understood?"

"Yes," breathed Hermione. _It's working_, she chanted in her head.

"Above all," said Professor McGonagall, and Hermione looked back at her, "that man is dangerous, and I don't want _any_ student except from yourself to have _any_ relation with him. Not even Miss Granger and Mr Weasley, Harry. Can you promise me this?"

_Can I?_ asked Hermione to herself, trying to keep her face blank.

"Harry?"

Hermione bit her lip, then stopped, remembering that Harry didn't do that. She settled for closing her hands into fists.

"Harry, surely you understand why I do not want other students – why I do not want Miss Granger exposed to that man."

Hermione started to feel annoyed. First Charlie, then Professor McGonagall. Did they all think she was just some silly girl?

"I do," she said, through gritted teeth, "promise."

Absently, she took several steps away from them. She just wanted to go back to the Burrow and sleep. But, first of all, she needed to find Harry and be sure that he his behaviour wouldn't betray her. But how on earth could she explain to him what she'd done?

Feeling an unpleasant prickling on the back of her head, she turned around. The members of the Order were still talking quietly to each other, but Snape was staring straight at her. His discoloured eyes were boring into hers.

"I can smell that glamour of yours," he whispered, so quietly that only Hermione could hear him. "You're not Harry Potter."

_A/N_

_Thank you very much for your reviews! They really keep me writing…you know, these moments when you say, Urgh, this is stupid, this whole story is rubbish…Well, your comments are a great help with them!_

_I also thank you for specific questions, which force me to think of logical answers and thus to make the story clearer, even to myself._

_Also, thank you for forgiving the cliffies – I'll make liberal use of them, since you're so generous…_

_**Gaila**__ – Actually, I do think it may be possible for Cedric to be buried there. We never had mention of any wizarding graveyards, and, if noble and ancient families like the Malfoys are bound to have their own cripts or funerary chapels in their estates, I doubt that the Weasley, for instance, would bury their relatives in their garden. Again, I'm guessing by building a precarious parallel with how things work in Switzerland: here, you may choose a religous funeral (a Mass and a priest) or a civil one (just your friends saying something) but in the end you're buried in the same place...we have no 'special' graveyards for atheists, jews, muslims or wizards…and no one has in Europe, I think, except for very old places, like the English Graveyard in Rome. As for the Bible, a Church is the quickest place where you can find one, isn't it? Hermioen wasn't sure she would actually need one, she only wanted to check on a random reference. _

_Next Update: June 12th_


	9. Chapter 9

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 9 – Or What You Want**

_Goll, son of Daire the Red, with fame,_

_Son of Eochaid the Fair, of valor excellent,_

_Son of Cairbre the Valorous with valor,_

_Son of Muiredach from Finnmag._

_Goll slew Luchet of the hundreds_

_In the battle of Cnucha, it is no falsehood:_

_Luchet the Fair of prowess bright_

_Fell by the son of Morna._

_By him fell great Cumall_

_In the battle of Cnucha of the hosts._

_It is for the chieftaincy of Erin's fian_

_That they waged the stout battle._

_The children of Morna were in the battle_

_And the Luagni of Tara,_

_Since to them belonged the leadership of the men of Ireland_

_By the side of every valorous king._

_Victorious Cumall had a son,_

_Finn, bloody, of weapons hard:_

_Finn and Goll, great their fame,_

_Mightily they waged war._

_Afterwards they made peace,_

_Finn and Goll of the hundred deeds,_

_Until Banb Sinna fell_

_About the pig at Tara Luachra._

_Aed was the name of the son of Daire_

_Until Luchet with glory wounded him:_

_Since the fierce lance had wounded him,_

_Therefore was he called Goll._

"Blimey, Hermione _does_ read all sort of crap," said Ginny, staring to the book in her lap.

The book didn't reply. It was the battered copy of _Macgnímartha Finn_ that had been in Sirius Black's desk for twenty years. Ginny had found it in her own room, lying next to her pink scissors. Brown hair were all over the floor.

She shut the book and looked out of the window. She was alone in the house, her boyfriend had left her, Hermione had cut her hair and a stupid boy named Finn walked around with a bag made of crane skin. _I mean, seriously!_ thought Ginny, staring absently at the messy garden. _Do cranes even _have_ skin?_

Harry Apparated out of thin air into her field of vision, and she jumped.

_Should I go down and talk to him?_ she wondered, her heart beating faster.

Harry seemed so tired. She could see blue circles under his eyes, and his skin was very pale, almost translucent.

_But if I go, he'll think that I don't accpet his decision of breaking up with me_, she thought distractedly. She missed his skin so much. It was delicate, like a girl's.

Harry stepped up and came into the house, and she couldn't see him anymore.

_I'm staying right here. Dignity, dignity, dignity_, she chanted in her head.

Then the door of her room opened and Harry stepped in. When he saw her, he did a double-take.

"What are you doing here?" he said, goggling at Ginny.

"Well, it's my room, isn'it?"

Harry blinked at Ginny.

"Of course – of course it is," he said awkwardly. "I just came to – to"

"Harry," said Ginny, suddenly hesitant. "I understand that the situation is difficult, but if we could just talk"

"to pick up this," said Harry, taking the discarded book from the bed. "I'll be gone now."

_What is it with men and talking?_ thought Ginny, angrily.

"Ok," she said, moving back to the window. "Ok – just go!"

"Ginny, it's just"

"Ron can help you," she shouted suddenly. "And Hermione can help you! But not me!"

Harry looked nonplussed.

"It's – it's different," he said lamely.

"GO AWAY! YOU AND YOUR STUPID BOOK ABOUT CRANE SKIN BAGS!"

"Crane skin – Oh! So it's _that _story!" said Harry happily, walking out of the room.

Ginny slammed the door on him, fuming. She was furious at herself – she'd had this conversation over and over in her head, and somehow she'd always managed to find good arguments – she loved him, she was very mature, powerfully magic; somehow, this conversation had always ended with him breathing deeply and telling her, "I'm glad you brought this up, I could never do this without you". Somehow, crane skin bags never made it into this conversation.

She felt like banging her head against the wall. Instead, she kicked the waste-bin and paced around the room. It was too hot to go outside. There was nothing to do inside. Besides, she thought, checking her watch, it was nearly dinner's time – soon her parents would be home, and then it would be a series of "Ginny, please help with this" and "Ginny, please help with that". Because of course, Bill was married, Charlie was away most of the time, Percy was 'dreadfully busy, sorry Mother", the twins in London and Ron was useless. Gritting her teeth, she found herself in front of the window again. Ron needed hours to peel two sprouts, chose the wrong plates for the different dishes, and had never learned to avoid Garden Gnomes' holes. _Jeez, look at him_, thought Ginny, watching as Ron stepped awkwardly through the garden. With Harry.

Ginny's eyes darted from one to the other. Hadn't Harry said…? No, actually he hadn't said anything. And now he didn't look tired at all. He was laughing. _How dare he?_ she thought.

Acting on instinct, she opened the window.

"YOU JERK!" she yelled, then she slammed it shut and threw herself on her bed.

HHH

"Have _you_ done something?" Ron asked, bewildered.

Harry racked his brain.

"I think not," he said slowly. "I hope not."

"Ok, then she was talking to me. Must have discovered that I used her old dress robes to build Pig's nest."

In that moment, the kitchen's window opened and they heard Mrs. Weasley talking to herself about dinner. Harry frowned.

"Do you think your Mum will notice that we had Cheering Schnaps?"

"Nah," said Ron, confidently. "Besides, a drink a day keeps the shrink away. And it's not like we're heavy drinkers. I can sometimes go for hours without touching a drop, myself."

"You know, those were Cheering Schnaps, not Random Quote Generator Schnaps."

Ron laughed, and Harry joined him despite himself. Those drinks were rather strong, but they'd both felt the need for the _Three Broomsticks_ after what Dumbledore's portrait had said to them.

"Oh – hello, Mr. Weasley," said Harry, trying to sober up a little.

Arthur Weasley, a set of Muggles tools in his hand, looked at the two of them. He seemed harassed.

"Hi boys. Got to go finish my – er – never mind. And I just wanted you to know," he said, clapping his hand on Harry's shoulder, "that you're a good boy, Harry. A very good boy."

Then he turned away and vanished into the broom cupboard.

"Er…"

"Could do with a Cheering Schnap himself, couldn't he?" asked Ron, jovially.

"Oh, there you are," said Mrs. Weasley. She looked very strangely at Harry for a moment, then snapped back to her usual self and said, "Ron, dear, I need some raspberries for this evening."

She put a bucket into Ron's hands and then looked at Harry fondly.

"Now, why don't you go to lie down for a bit, dear? You must be tired, what with…well, everything."

"I'm all right, Mrs. Weasley. Shouldn't I help Ron"

"You're sweet, but I insist. Ron, I'll send Ginny to help you."

Harry had a last view of Ron's worried expression as he was swept inside the house by an overmotherly Mrs. Weasley.

"It's not that I do not appreciate what you did, Harry. I'm just so worried – and you look so _thin_! How could Albus…?"

Harry was starting to feel that there was something he was missing. Before he could ask what all that was about, though, he was sent upstairs with a glass of milk and a jar of home-made cookies – "Remus and Tonks are arriving in 30 minutes! So much to do!"

As he passed Ginny's door, he leant in to listen, but no sound was coming from it. He wondered if he ought to poke his head inside, but then he remembered Ginny's thunderous mood and decided against it.

After another flight of stairs, he was in front of his own door – well, Ron's room, actually, but he'd come to consider the Burrow as his own house. Balancing the biscuits jar under his arm, he pushed the door open and he felt his eyes fall off his head.

Harry Potter was standing in the middle of the room, reading through some notes.

The jar and the glass fell to the floor and shattered. The-Boy-Who-Was-Not-Harry twisted round, and Harry took his wand out and pointed it at him.

"Harry, no!" the boy screeched, taking his own wand out of his belt.

"Who are you?" said Harry, bewildered. It was the strangest feeling ever. He felt like he was back into his third year, and wondered briefly if that boy could be a Harry from the future.

"It's just me," said the boy, somehow unhelpfully. "It's a Glamour – I'll turn the wand on myself and take it off."

"Move your wand and I'll curse you," Harry said, and his double gaped at him.

"Wow, you're scary," he said, awed. "Look, I'll turn round – I won't be a threat – just wait."

Harry kept his wand ready as the Boy-Who-Wasn't-Harry turned on the spot and muttered quietly to himself. Then he was facing him again, and suddenly Hermione was standing in front of him. She had very short hair and looked drunk. Harry lowered his wand.

"Why are you wearing my" he started, and then everything clicked into place into his brain and he rolled his eyes. "So? What does Snape say?"

Hermione opened her mouth then closed it again.

"How do you know about Snape?"

"Dumbledore. When we arrived, Professor McGonagall had just left."

"And what did he say?" Hermione asked anxiously.

Harry plopped himself on the bed, snorting.

"Nothing very useful. That portrait has been painted ages ago. He only went on for hours about how we should trust Snape…I said him that I couldn't believe Snape was sorry when my dad was killed, and he got all Dumbledorish, 'You never know how people are like' and stuff. Then he said that Snape's regret wasn't the reason he trusted him so much."

Harry put his hands over his face, and Hermione felt her fingers prickle – where could she find some parchment and her Self-Refilling Quill? She so needed to take notes on this.

"Still wouldn't say the real reason, though," continued Harry wearily. "I mean, he's dead and all – and we told him Snape killed him – and the man still trusts him."

"So what are you going to do?" asked Hermione, biting her lip.

"Pay no attention to him. I don't want to see him, don't want to talk to him. They caught him – it's what matters."

Hermione hesitated.

"Harry, I've been researching on devises of magical destruction. The only easy thing that may work would be artificial Basilisk's poison. And we need Snape's help for that."

Harry absently tapped his wand on Ron's pillow. It turned pink.

"Why can't Slughorn help you?"

Hermione saw immediately that he was leaving this part to her, and she was grateful for it: there was something she could do, a way she could help.

"I doubt that he'll want to be involved with this. Basilisk's poison is a very dark ingredient, he said to that party that he stopped handling this kind of things as soon as he could, after his degree – don't you remember?"

"Was that the Cormac-is-my-date-everyone party?" asked Harry mischieviously.

"No," said Hermione, with as much dignity as she could muster. "Anyway. The Order now thinks that it was you standing up for Snape tonight."

"Standing up – what have you done?"

So she told him, trying to be as soothing as she could – he seemed to be turning paler any minute – and then she stammered, "Isn't this for the best, really?"

Harry didn't talk for some time; then he said, "Ok. But no one has to know about this. I'll tell Ron later on, when the Cheering charm has faded."

Hermione smiled, relieved.

"I thought," she said quickly. "that we may live at Hogwarts. As I'll have to turn into you every time I go into Snape's dungeons, nobody will notice if you're not there. You and Ron could pop out of the castle to look for Horcruxes, and I'll be there all the time, pretending to be you, preparing the poison and researching on the Bible."

"Sounds good. And about that, any clues?"

"Oh – I didn't look at it, actually. I was just too tired – I think I'll go to bed now and starting to research it first time tomorrow."

Hermione stood up, yawning, and walked to the door.

"Er – you still have my clothes on," pointed out Harry, a little uncomfortably.

"Oh yes. Do you mind if I keep them? I mean, I'll take them off now, but they're bound to be useful."

Suddenly, Harry felt rather warm around the ears.

"Er," he stammered, "take them off? Hermione, how does this Glamour work, exactly?"

HHH

Theodore Carter opened his eyes. Piercing sunlight was coming through his enchanted window – a clear, untarnished white light. He sighed.

_And again, he is safe_, he thought, raising his wrinkled face towards sunlight. _But for how long? I should have been his guide in the path I chose for him._

Carter waved his wand, and a desolated song filled the room.

_E me si vile ei tiene_

_che viver voglia, io reo, quando ella muore,_

_ella innocente! A lui ritorna, e digli_

_ch'io ricusai così funesto dono._

The old man sang along, very quietly, closing his eyes to the light again.

_Digli che in questo petto_

_come puro l'amor, sacra è la fiamma_

_che da virtù nasce, digli che in core_

_in mezzo ai mali miei parla l'onore._

_Vieni, infelice amico, unico è questo_

_conforto che mi resta,_

_l'abbracciarti e morir._

HHH

Hermione couldn't honestly say that she'd have a bad day. In fact, everything had gone very smoothly – except for Snape suspecting something.

_Now, that's what a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher should look like_, she thought, approvingly, as she stretched into her bed. Trying to recall his expression, she grabbed her nightly glass of water from Ginny's bedside table.

Some part of her had been impressed even as he said that to her, but in the main she'd been downright terrified. Standing there, unable to move, Snape's discoloured eyes staring up at her with pure malevolence shining in them.

"If you're here to help me, they'll kill you," he'd said, very quietly. "And if, as I think, you're here to help _them_, _I_'ll kill you."

Hermione had a nervous giggle and the water spilled out through her nose.

_Cannot believe I said that to him_, she thought, putting the glass down.

"When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," she repeated, just to hear the words out loud.

_Bet I sounded more like an hoity-toity teenager than…_Her eyes misted as she realized that she'd attempted to sound like _him_. _Oh God._

She turned into her bed, suddenly uneasy.

_It _is_ kind of effective, the way he talks, though_, she admitted to herself.

She turned again, facing the ceiling. It was not just the way, she decided: it really was the voice. Velvety, teasing the ear, but also steel, and vinegar, and spices.

There was no denying it, her amusement had completely dissipated. Now she just felt scared. And a bit hot around the collar.

She shuddered. She needed to sleep – she was not herself.

_A/N. Next Update, June 18th_

_Woow, sixteen reviews for last chapter! Only chapter 4 and chapter 6 got almost as many…mmh, wondering if that's because Sevvie makes his appareance in those chapters? Naughtie girls, you all are…_

_Also a big thank you for accepting my Glamour solution to HermySnape's challenge. This story was complicated enough without adding Hermione dealing with a different way of peeing. The kinky ones out there who wants to know what it's like, though, should read a masterpiece of HP fanfiction, _The Fire and the Rose_, published at the Société des femmes dangereuses. Enjoy!_

_The title of this chapter is from Shakespeare's _The Twelfth Night or What You Want_, a comedy about sexual misunderstandings…it is actually a clever title (for the play, that is) because the 'what you want' part could refer to the characters' mistakes, but it is also clearly directed to the Queen, who'd asked for a comedy to play during the twelfth night – Shakespeare chose no real title, but, as far as I know, the queen didn't either._

_The opening quote is from _The Boyhood Deeds of Finn mac Cumhaill _(Irish title: Macgnímartha Finn). You can find the whole text here (http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/f02.html)_

"A drink a day keeps the shrink away"_ Edward Abbey._

"I am not a heavy drinker. I can sometimes go for hours without touching a drop," _Noel Coward._

E me si vile ei tiene

che viver voglia, io reo, quando ella muore,

ella innocente! A lui ritorna, e digli

ch'io ricusai così funesto dono.

Digli che in questo petto

come puro l'amor, sacra è la fiamma

che da virtù nasce, digli che in core

in mezzo ai mali miei parla l'onore.

Vieni, infelice amico, unico è questo

conforto che mi resta,

l'abbracciarti e morir.

_From Donizetti, _Anna Bolena_. This is my own ridiculous translation:_

And he thinks I am so unworthy that I should want to live when I see her die – and I am guilty, and she is innocent! Go back to him, and tell him that I refuse this terrible gift. Tell him that in this chest there is pure love, and a sacred flame that borns from virtue, and that honour still preside over my heart, despite my sorrows. Come, unhappy friend, I have only this last solace – to embrace you and then to die.

_So, answers:_

_Many want to know what's wrong with SS's eyes…well, it's ver very important for the plot, but won't be revealed for some time, sorry!_

_And I'm positively awed by your response to the UQM argument: so all of you think they are immoral? Wow! Nagging suspicion…would that be because you're Snapeaholics? Only checking because I had a discussion about torture with my students two weeks ago, and results were depressing. Bottom line was, all of them (nice and well-behaved upper class Latin students) were completely OK with torturing fellow human beings…I mean, I was planning to stir up the argument by going, "Ok, you're against torture, but what if this guy knows where an unexploded bomb is? What if he killed your parents?" and such, but as it turned out it was completely unnecessary. I only had to ask, "What do you think about torture?" and all of them said, "Aye". Only one girl said "No", but later on she gave me a confused look and said, "Ah, were we speaking about torture? Oh, that's ok – I thought we were discussing death sentence". So here you are, and welcome to the third millennium…_

_**Oscarxena** – this is an interesting point. Actually, I see Hermione as a very 'rational' girl, and I very much think that – at least in my fiction – she didn't have any religious education from her parents, which is often the case in Europe. Thus, she would have picked up texts and quotes here and there, but nothing serious. _

_**duj** – Hi! Well, I don't now if there is a JKR approved answer to these questions; in my fic, Moody's eye can see only through real objects (Canon: Invisibility cloaks, walls, robes, furniture) but not through spells or glamours. As for the Basilisk, it is my belief that the venom has long dried (Canon: Slughorn wants to take Aragog's poison as soon as possible, before it dries)_

_**wynnleaf** – you touch a sore point. I completely agree with you – I know what it's like to read texts stuffed with grammar or spelling mistakes. The fact is, I tried working with a beta, but it didn't work out. So I decided to work alone and try to check and re-check my writing more. I have the impression that most of the time I can see where the mistake is, even if sometimes I have to change a sentence because I don't know how to put it right. But many times, of course, I don't see them, and am very sorry about it. As I write fanfiction primarily to improve my English, though, I'll take the risk. Sorry again._

_About the Order, I think that in Canon we never had their POV. We know Sirius didn't like Crouch Sr., but that may be because of the way he himself was treated (Sirius does say that many people approved of Crouch); we also know that Moody tried to capture DE alive. We know that DD doesn't approve of torturing and killing._

_However, I wouldn't be so optimistic about what the Order think now. After all, Snape is not just any DE: he was (is?) an ally, and he betrayed them; more, he did kill the only person who was able to stop LV (the Order doesn't know about the prophecy). I think they may be fairly angry at SS, and anger leads to revenge (people clapping at the Longbottomo's process?). Even Lupin, at the end of HPB, who always stood up for SS in the past, says 'in an **uncharacteristically harsh** voice: "We always knew he was a good Occlumens"' (quoting from memory, emphasis mine). _


	10. Chapter 10

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 10 – Indecent Proposal**

Hermione woke up with a feeling of dreading coursing through her body. Judging from the light, it couldn't be later than day break.

_Breathe_, she told herself briskly.

_He knows about the Glamour_, said a panicked voice inside her.

_I'll tell him some lie_, she thought, trying to squash her fear. _And anyway, he can't do anything to me._

That was the key, she decided. Snape was a prisoner; he actually had chains binding his writs and feet. He was confined in his quarters, which had been stripped and searched for dangerous items, and it was she, Hermione, who had the password to open an access to his lab. She had the wand, she knew things. Snape had been confined for two weeks. He couldn't do anything.

Hermione moved her hands over the blankets and found the little shuttle lost in the fabric. At the beginning of the summer, tired of knitting and hating the feeling of the wool on her sun-warmed hands, she had taken to tatting, but had not yet mastered the art. She passed her fingers on the little flower she'd been tatting just moments before falling asleep, and frowned. The flower was only half-finished, and already it looked irregular and somehow wrong.

To ease her nerves, Hermione cut the threads and started a new flower, moving the shuttle with clumsy fingers. Her thoughts darted back to Snape, and she saw again his figure, impressing in the shadows, as he told her to help Professor Flitwick. She heard his velvety voice as he sneered, _And here I thought you had grown._ Her fingers were trembling, and she breathed deeply through her nose. She saw that she'd forgotten to add a picot and she released the thread, touching it lightly until the last stitch went loose.

_Concentrate_, she thought firmly.

Four stitches, a little picot. Four stitches, a little picot. Four stitches, a big picot. Two stiches, another pig picot.

The sun was quietly raising, bathing her room in a red light. Hermione barely noticed it. She was keeping her mind on the thin thread running through his fingers, on the golden shuttle moving left and right, counting her stitches and occasionally stretching her legs under the covers. Slowly, cautiously, a little lace flower bloomed into her hands. Hermione chained the last petal to the first and blinked into the light. Her bedside lamp had turned itself off – it was charmed to submit to sun light. Hermione looked at her flower critically. It was not perfect, but there was a quiet beauty in it, a lopsided grace. She held it up to her window, and ti shined into the light.

She put it carefully between the pages of the book she was reading – _Jane Eyre_ – and started to dress. As her hands closed on her skirt, however, she changed her mind. She wasn't hungry, and the thought to change into Harry's clothes later on unnerved her. With a quick movement she opened her wardrobe.

She didn't want glasses, she thought, surveying herself into the mirror. She'd say Snape that she'd used a Glamour on her eyes, and that would be her lie. And if he didn't want to believe her – well, she was fine with that. She was the one with the wand.

Slamming the door of her dorm, she crossed the common room and slipped off the passage under the sleepy eyes of the Fat Lady.

HH

Ron Weasley stood on the last step of the stairs, his heart thumping madly. He hadn't slept well, and it was a feeling of emptiness which had woken him up. Fighting against his bad dreams, he had opened his eyes and had seen that Harry was gone. His bed looked unslept in, his trunk was still closed.

Of course, it was unusual for Harry to wake up before Ron did, and to wander off to the Owlery or the Great Hall; but that morning, Ron had stared at the empty bed, and then at the other empty eds behind him – Seamus', Dean's, Neville's – and an eerie feeling had crept up his arms.

He'd dressed quickly, and was just about to cross the silent common room when he'd heard a door slam and he'd frozen in mid-movement. Harry was coming out of Hermione's room, a determined, fresh look on his face. Ron had the time to see that Harry was not wearing his glasses and that his clothes had a dirty, crumpled look about them, as thought he'd slept on them, before the other boy went out of the room and disappeared from his view.

Unbidden and unwelcome, sudden memories crowded into his head. Harry and Hermione circling the lake, fading into the distance; Harry and Hermione whispering in the corridors; Harry and Hermione studying in the common room, their heads together, when everyone else had gone.

Ron couldn't breathe. A cold hand had seized his stomach, and he felt it clenching his body and turning it inside out. He staggered, his hand on the wall. Then he steadied himself and ran out of the common room.

HH

Hermione entered the potions lab with some trepidation. It was the first time she was there on her own, and the familiar room looked forbidding. The walls seemed to close on her; the dead animals in the jars seemed to eye her beadily, as though they knew that she was not allowed there.

With a trembling hand, Hermione tapped her wand on the door which leaded to Snape's private rooms, and it opened. She stepped inside. It took her some minutes to get used to the feeble light of the dying fire, but as soon as she could see, she stifled a gasp.

The rooms were ruined. Two armchairs were lying upside down, their fabric viciously slashed; a couch, facing the fire, was still standing, but its stuffing was pouring out from various cuts. Book were everywhere, and Hermione couldn't suppress a feeling of rage when she saw that some of them had their spines broken and their pages teared. Papers littered the floor. Under her very feet was a parchment bearing the titles for third-years potions essays.

Cautiously, she stepped further in. Her nostrils were hit with the smell of close, unwanted, unwashed things.

She went closer to the fire, with the idea of stirring it up, but when she reached the couch she stopped, horrified. Over it, in a bundle of black fabric, Severus Snape was sleeping, his face hidden by a curtain of black hair.

Hermione stood silent for a long moment, watching him. In the dim light, she could barely distinguish his pale hands closed into fists against his chest.

Without warning, Snape sprang up and in one fluid movement he'd taken her by the wrist, his eyes boring into hers.

"_Protego_!" shouted Hermione, reacting istinctively, and he was thrown backwards, away from her.

The mark of his fingers burned her skin, and Hermione passed her right hand on her wrist, sure she would find an angry scald on it, but there was nothing.

"Potter," Snape whispered from the corner of the sitting room, making her jump. "To what do I ow the pleasure of your company?"

Hermione kept his wand on him, eying him warily.

"I need to brew a potion," she said, afraid of the sound of her own girly voice.

_He can't see you_, she reminded herself firmly.

"What happened to your rooms?" she asked, refraining herself to use his title – Harry would not to that.

"Experimenting with glamours, are we?" he answered, in a silky voice. "It's a wonder you can pass through doors with such a large head upon your shoulders."

Hermione didn't understand what he was talking about; then she remembered that she wasn't wearing Harry's glasses and forced her mouth into a smile.

"What do you know about artificial poisons?" she asked.

Snape didn't move.

"The question is not what I know," he said softly. "But rather what will I teach you."

He looked at her malevolently and Hermione suppressed a shudder.

"_Lumen solis_," she cried, and the room was suddenly very bright. "I'm going to look through your books. Why don't you eat something in the meantime?" she added, gesturing at the untouched plate of sandwiches lying on a low table.

Snape didn't answer. As she moved around the room, glancing at titles a sorting through volumes, she could feel his poisonous glare on her back. Finally, as nervous sweat was starting to form droplets on her foreheads, she read the title on a blackish little book. _Fake but Real_, it said. She picked it up and scanned through it.

To her disappointment, it turned out to be an essay, without actual indications for brewing. As she read passages here and there, she forgot Snape's silent presence. The book said that many magical substances could be recreated artificially; in some cases, though, specific properties were lost in the process. Apparently a Gudrun Lindgren had researched the possibility to synthetize poisons, and her article had been published in a revue.

"Do you have _Alchemical Quarterly_ of 1988?" she asked, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.

HH

Snape had knew at once that someone was in the room. After years of training, his sleep was very light, and his senses always alert. He'd been extremely displeased, thought, to find Harry Potter of all people standing into his private rooms.

The glamour was still on him, but after Potter's protection spell Snape was fairly sure the boy was telling the truth. He still remembered the only Occlumency class in which Potter had managed to break into his thoughts, using that very same panicked _protego_ which he had just used.

Snape was not so proud as to say he would rather be in Moody's company again, but his return to Hogwarts had been less than pleasurable. He'd come back to find his rooms wrecked, his books thorned, his laboratory closed. He didn't care about the Minerva's glares, but he did care about his desk upturned and searched.

_As if I'd keep something secret in here_, he'd thought scornfully. _Fools._

Potter looked younger without his glasses, and James had faded a little from his face. The boy now looked disturbingly like his mother, and Snape couldn't take his eyes off him. He'd been unable to move as he watched the boy move with a careful grace in his own ravaged rooms. As he followed his movements, Snape considered how he had never allowed students into his quarters, not even Draco; and yet, somehow, Potter didn't seem out of place. His hands were careful and loving as he picked up the ruined books and put them down and the shelves. His eyes, Lily's eyes, scanned quickly through titles and indexes, with an air of focussed attention Snape had rarely seen in his face. It was Lily's again.

"Do you have _Alchemical Quarterly_ of 1988?" Potter asked suddenly, and Snape clenched his hands into fists.

He knew what he had to do; all the rest, even his dignity, should wait.

"It was on that shelf," he said neutrally, pointing at it with his chin.

The boy frowned at his polite answer, and his frown deepened as he took in the broken bookcase.

"_Accio_ Alchemical Quarterly," he said, waving his wand, and about fifty volumes zoomed towards him, knocking him off his feet.

"How stupid are you, Potter?" Snape asked, curling his lips.

HH

Hermione gripped her wand first, and then checked to see if Snape had moved, but he was still in his corner, sneering at her. Mumbling a retort, she knelt and began to sort through the volumes, quickly locating the one she needed.

As she scanned Lindgren's article, she saw that she provided sketchy indications for the potion she needed. Her heart thumped faster.

_So it's possible_, she thought happily.

"Right," she said vaguely, standing up. "I'm off to the lab, do you want to come?"

Without waiting for an answer, she crossed the room and went back into the laboratory.

Two hours later, however, the bubble of joy in er chest had completely evaporated. She was unable to follow Lindgren's instruction. The potion was well beyond her skill.

Snape had slowly walked into the room about an half hour after she'd started with her first attempt. Occasionally she asked him things, but he never spoke. As her third cauldron of crap exploded to her face, covering her in a stinky brown liquid, Hermione could take it no more.

"Look, I need your help," she said, angrily.

Snape sneered.

"Do say that again, Potter. It's refreshing to hear you admit your inadequacy."

"Stop that! I've been working two hours on this potion – what do you want? We'll make a bargain, there must be something" Hermione broke up, noticing a slight shift in Snape's expression.

"There is something," said Snape slowly. He seemed most unwilling to phrase his thoughts.

"Which is?" snapped Hermione, cleaning her face with the back of her hand.

"I want to meet Miss Granger," Snape said. "Alone."

Hermione gaped at him. Her first, foolish thought was that he surely couldn't meet both of them at once – Fake Harry and Real Hermione. Then she remembered that he wasn't supposed to meet Real Hermione at all.

"Why?"

"This is not of your business," he said repressively.

Hermione glowered at him.

"You are not in the position to make ummotivated requests," she spat.

"Really?" he said, a dangerous spark in his eyes. "I thought you needed my help."

Hermione turned away from him and started to clean up the mess that had been a cauldron only minutes before.

_The git_, she thought as she Vanished spots of the burned thing on the table. She remembered Professor McGongall's worried face, and Charlie's anxious expression.

_I need his help._

"Ok," she said, without turning round. "You'll talk to her, but I want it to be an honest bargain."

There was no answer. She turned slowly to face him.

"Artificial basilisk's poison can be made?" she asked steadily.

"Yes," he said.

"And you know how to do it?"

His eyes flickered in annoyance.

"I am a Potions Master."

"And you will help me," she said – half an order, half a plead.

Snape hesitated, his blank face unreadable.

"Yes," he said finally.

"Ok – then – I'll call her now, I've wasted enough time."

Without looking at him, Hermione went out of the room, softly closing the door behind her. She stopped into the cold corridor and pressed herself against the wall. She was sweating.

Ten minutes later, she was back as Hermione, wondering what the heck he wanted to talk about. She remembered with a sense of unease his urgency in Grimmauld Palace. _We have more urgent matters to discuss_.

She entered the overheated laboratory and tried to look uncertain, as though she was not sure about where things were and what she should do.

"Harry said you wanted to talk to me," she said, aiming for a submissive tone, trying to make as much contrast as she could with Fake Harry's voice.

Snape was standing at the further end of the lab, looking as forbidding as ever. Hermione could not see his bonds under the folds of his black cloak, and for a moment she had the most irrational fear that he'd taken them off.

"Come closer," he ordered, and she did.

"Closer," he said again.

Her mouth dry, Hermione took another step onwards.

"What do you want?" she asked nervously.

"I'm wearing a shirt under this cloak," he said, shrugging so as the cloak shifted a little and Hermione could see some white fabric.

She stared at him. Why was he talking about his clothes? _You've been stroking that unicorn for ten minutes – you think I can't tell what it means?_ said Charlie's voice inside her head.

"I want you to rip off the first button," he said quietly.

Hermione stood rooted in place, gaping.

"Are you deaf, girl?"

She wanted her to touch him? To take his clothes off? Again, a flash of Charlie Weasley crossed Hermione's mind – _You've not seen enough of the world to challenge a man like Snape_ – and she set her jaw. _I'll show them_, she thought angrily. She thought she saw a glimpse of approval in Snape's discoloured eyes, but only a split second later his face was again a blank mask. She walked carefully up to him and extended her arms, placing her hands on the velvety collar of his cloak and pushing it aside. Underneath it was a white shirt. Barely breathing, she seized the first button and pulled. It came free immediately.

"Very good," said a soft voice in her ear, and she jumped – they were so close. "Now raise your hand."

Completely disconnected from real world, she did as he asked and raised the button to his mouth. He blowed on it, very softly, and she felt goosebumps on her skin. She raised her eyes to look at him. Again, he had a most curious expression – determination, and – was it possible? fear. She looked at her own hand and saw that where a button had been was now a plain gold ring.

Without warning, Snape raised his chained hands and put them on top of hers, closing her fingers upon the ring.

Hermione looked at him again, her heart thumping madly – his eyes still had that desperate, settled expression, as though he was forcing himself to make a difficult choice.

"I need you to accept this," he murmured, his voice very soft.

_A/N_

_Hi, and sorry for the delay – I wanted to make this differently, and Lucius Malfoy kept intruding, but in the end I convinced him that he has to wait for another chapter. Hope you'll like this one all the same, despite the absence of His Blondiness._

_For those who are interested in tatting, it is a delightful activity and quite easy to learn. Here is the best site on the net, Jen's:_

update: June 24th


	11. Chapter 11

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 11 – Celebrity Is As Celebrity Does**

Harry was dreaming, but his dreams were not pleasant. He saw burning swords, knights of death, and the black face of the abyss. And he was plunging right into it…deeper…deeper…

He woke up with a start, and he squinted at the sun. It couldn't be later than mid-morning, but he had a funny feeling in his muscles and his mouth was dry – like the uneasiness of having slept through the afternoon. He gulped some fresh air and stirred.

Hogwarts looked beautiful. The lake was gleaming like a silent mirror, and the castle reflected into it, his turrets and battlemets sharply defined by the glorious morning light.

_Another morning_, Harry thought. _Another day of battle and I haven't solved the riddle. I still don't know where the Horcruxes are._

Without meaning to do it, he'd spent the night reading and re-reading Dumbledore's quizzical note and the Bible Ron had duplicated from Ottery St. Catchpole's church. He'd stared at the book until the walls of the common room had seemed too dark and too close together, and he'd needed some fresh air. Harry barely remembered how he'd wandered into the night, down some steps, out of the Entrance Hall, into the grounds, finally stopping under his father's beech tree.

He blinked and opened the Bible again. He felt he could vaguely understand why Dumbledore thought this text was the key of a riddle. Voldemort had proved himself superstitious, and he had wanted to link the path of his immortality with a prophecy. Maybe he thought he himself had made it; maybe he'd had some visions. Or maybe it was just an academical process, a proof of wisdom and cunning, Harry couldn't guess. What he knew, was that every city represented one part of Voldemort's soul.

_So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth._

The words rang into his ears, and Harry frowned. This was the warning for the city of Laodicea, the one Dumbledore had connected with the last piece of soul, Voldemort's. And yet…

Harry opened the Bible and re-read the passage carefully. He decided that it could be Voldemort speaking, abandoning the pieces of soul that he didn't need, because they were _neither cold nor hot_, but something wasn't right. There was another person hidden in those verses…an interpretation just beyond his grasp…

Swearing, Harry put the book back into his bag, and his hand collided with something hard: the box of his mother's letters. He had not looked at them; something inside his chest had told him it wasn't right, he shouldn't do it. But suddenly, sitting in the shadow of the beech tree, the laughter of his father and the other Marauders ringing in his ears, Harry was overpowered by curiosity.

He opened the box, and a light perfume of flowers pervaded his nostrils. His mouth suddenly dry, Harry passed his trembling fingers between the old parchment, catching lone words here and there as he sorted through the letters – _dearest…I think of you very much…I can't believe you did it…I hope…I'd like…I found what you were looking for, you should tell Sirius…_

Harry's heart stopped for a moment, and his eyes stopped on the page. Lily's handwriting was very easy to read, quite like Hermione's, and Harry scanned the letter quickly, his breath becoming more and more uneven as he read on.

_It can't be_, he thought, dazed.

HH

"What is the meaning of this?"

Minister Scrimgeour was used to bad days, but just when he'd thought that things could not go worse, they had. He was staring furiously out of the window, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ crushed into his hand. On the page, the bold letters of the main article were trying to edge sideways to avoid the Minister's grip. _Muggles worship_, one could read through Scrimgeour's strong fingers.

"We print facts, Rufus," said the man in the shadows.

Minister Scrimegour looked at him as though he'd never seen him before. It suddenly struck to him that Barnabas Cuffe looked a lot like a boar – and not in a good sense. He was rather fat, with a large nose and a larger jaw. His gray hair, thick and stingy like bristles, grew indifferently onto his head and neck, melting into an unpleasant beard on his chin. He had not neck. In fact, the Minister was picturing very clearly in his head the cover of his wife's favourite book, _Fifty Ways to Cook Your Game_ by Cornelia Bloodmeat, when Cuffe spoke again.

"I was under the impression that you were in favour of the liberty of the press."

Scrimgeour's brain came back to reality, and the Minister gritted his teeth.

"I am. You know I am. But I have not read a more ridiculous piece since Oddpick's _Why can't goblins be more like elves?_"

"There is always some ridicule in times of war," said Cuff calmly. "Do you mind?" he added, taking a carved tobacco woodbox out of his pocket.

"Not at all," said Scrimegour, waving his hand in a nervous gesture. Another word had escaped his grip, and the frontpage now read, _Muggle Worship Death_. "So you're sure that this is actually happening?"

Cuffe, who was chewing his tobacco, nodded. He looked more like an boar than ever.

"Are your Aurors failing you?" he asked, spitting slightly.

"I have no Aurors to spare for Muggles," was the harsh answer. "We have too much to do as it is. But still," he hissed angrily, "I'll want people onto this – I want to know who let this slip, and what is their Minister doing."

"Do you need something from us?" asked Cuffe politely.

Scrimgeour stood up, releasing the paper from his grip.

"As a matter of fact, Barnabas, I do," he said slowly. "Why don't you turn this into something laughable – you know, Muggles are such fools and all that? People need a smile."

Cuffe looked dubious.

"I'll try," he said, taking another pinch of tobacco from his box.

"That's settled then. Come on, now," he said briskly, "I'll show you to Wiggleswade's office – you can talk to him for details. You know, we have rearranged some departments…"

Scrimgeour's voice faded away as the two men left the room. On the Minister's desk, the _Daily Prophet_ was spreading his title on the page.

_MUGGLE WORSHIP DEATH EATER_, it said.

_No less than two hundred Muggles have protested yesterday in front of the Muggle Ministry (Dooming Street) claiming that Lucius Malfoy should be immediately released as the terms of his emprisonement are 'unfair' and…_

The article continued in page 2, 3 and 7; a large picture of Lucius Malfoy took up most of the space of the front page. He was polishing his silver cane on his cloak with an air of bored superiority.

HH

For a moment, Hermione only existed through her hands; no part of her body was connected to her anymore – she could feel only her hands, her fingers closed upon the warm ring, Snape's fingers burning on her sweating skin. Her blood thumped madly into the tips of her fingers; her eyes, that she was unable to raise into Snape's, were fixed on her wrists, tickled by Snape's velvet cuffs.

Then a voice talked into her head, and she snapped back into reality. She took a step back so quickly that she tripped on her cloak and fell.

Snape made a sudden movement, but the chains binding his feet hindered him, and he subsided.

Her left hand still closed on the ring, her right fumbling for her wand, Hermione went slowly to her feet, her eyes never leaving Snape's.

"What is this?" she whispered. "What do you want?"

Snape was silent for a moment, his face blank, then he started to speak, very quietly, as though every word was costing him a huge effort.

"That ring is very ancient," he said. "Malfoys have given it to their brides for centuries, passing it down from father to son. I…Narcissa…she used to wear it on a chain around her neck."

Hermione gaped. What was he talking about? Narcissa Malfoy's wedding ring? Was he mad?

"I took it off her dead body with my own hands," said Snape, so quietly that Hermione had to hold her breath to hear him.

Once the meaning of his words sank in, Hermione was horrified. Mrs Malfoy – dead? Had Voldemort murdered her? Surely the Order hadn't…surely they wouldn't…But then, another side of her brain she'd not been aware it existed smiled viciously. Another enemy was down; and with Narcissa dead, Lucius in Azkaban and Draco as a useless, whimpering boy, the Malfoy line was lost to Voldemort's cause. Hermione tried to push this thought back, ashamed of herself, and her eyes focussed on Snape again. He was very pale, his lips barely moving.

"I gave it to Draco. But then…" he said, and paused; he paused so long that Hermione was quite convinced he would not speak again.

As she stood there, wondering what to do, Snape suddenly continued his broken sentence.

"But then he entrusted me with it. He asked me to give it to you."

The ring in Hermione's hand suddenly became very hot, and she thought it would burn her hand, but she fastened her grip on it, biting on her lip to stop herself from asking questions.

_So it _is_ a wedding ring, but it does not come from Snape, but from Malfoy._

The thought was alarming and scary, and yet Hermione felt a nervous laugh stirring inside her stomach. Malfoy wanted to marry her. She hoped Snape had finished his tale – she couldn't take more of it.

"Malfoy hates me," she blurted out, unable to stop herself, squashing the hysterical giggle which was coursing through her body.

Snape raised his head, which had sunk in a grotesque bow, and stared at her.

"He didn't," he said, very slowly. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

Hermione couldn't believe it. She was gossiping with Snape about her love life. With Snape. With the greasy git, the bat of the dungeons, the traitor, the spy, the Death Eater. It seemed impossible that someone would confide in him – surely, not even Malfoy could do that. Malfoy, whom Snape called 'Draco' and whom he had always defended, pleased, showed to like. Hermione tried to imagine both of them in Snape's study, drinking tea and chatting about their feelings, and she failed utterly.

Snape was lying. Yes. That was certain. Indubitable. Crystal clear. Malfoy could not love her.

_Wait_, she thought. _He didn't say he _loves_ me, he said he _loved_ me._

Snape seemed to be waiting for a sign she had recovered her sense. He was watching her, a most curious expression on his face. He saw the question in her eyes, and his lips curled with disdain.

"I wish he had bestowed his attention on a worthier candidate, but, as they say, let every eye negotiate for itself. He wanted _you_ to have that ring. It was his dying wish."

Hermione could take it no more. Her wand arm fell numbly to her side; she turned and ran out of the room.

HH

Rita Skeeter looked at the letters into her hands and smiled.

"The _Prophet_ will pay me a fortune for these," she said, and her Quick Quotes Quill started to scribble frantically.

_Special Correspondent, Rita Skeeter, reveals what Muggles see in Lucius Malfoy._

"It will finally be the end of this putrid room, of this stinky city. Back to London, my dear," she said, patting fondly her crocodile bag, which snapped on her fingers affectionately.

As she turned round, her eyes fell on a glass jar lying on the desk.

"Why not?" she murmured. "Why shouldn'I show little Miss Perfect what people are really like?"

Grinning, she duplicated the letters and snapped her fingers. A barn owl flew down from a cupboard, and she tied the roll of paper to his leg.

"Bring this to Hermione Granger, Brown. Go!"

As the owl soared into the sky, Rita Skeeter smiled. Then she stuffed the original letters in her bag and Disapparated.

HH

Harry and Hermione collided in the Entrance Hall, both pale and sweaty. Harry, however, took one look at Hermione's face and gestured for her to speak.

"You first," he said.

Hermione opened her mouth; she meant to say that Harry should talk first – he was dishevelled, as though he'd slept in his clothes – but her brain had a different idea.

"Malfoy wants to marry me," she blurted out. "But he's dead."

Harry felt his legs go numb; he wanted to sit down, but was somehow prevented from doing so when Hermione collapsed against him, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

"Come on," he said, awkwardly. "Come on."

In the end, he half-carried, half-dragged her into the Great Hall and forced her to sit down. Then he looked uncertainly down at the empty table and said "Could we have some strong tea, please?"

Instantly, a steaming pot and two mugs appeared in front of them and Harry sat down across Hermione, pushing a mug towards her.

"Did he tell you this?" he asked.

He felt he could not utter Snape's name without breaking his promise to Dumbledore – he'd say he would try to understand, he would not hurt the man – but Hermione understood.

"Yes," she said, hiccuping. She gulped down some tea and then grabbed Harry's hand. "We could have saved him and we did nothing."

Harry tried to ignore the hollow feeling in his stomach. He'd never thought about the bathroom incident of last year; he'd never wondered what would have happened if he'd tried to be sympathetic – if he'd tried to understand. He could not think about it. The weight of Dumbledore's death was heavy enough as it was.

"We could not have saved him, Hermione," he said, needing her to understand. "He was…a Malfoy. He's been raised that way."

Perfectly unwelcome, the memory of Malfoy lowering his wand as Dumbledore offered to hide him and his mother flashed in front of him.

"And what's this rubbish – _marry_ you?"

Hermione sniffed and opened her hand. On her palm gleamed a golden ring.

"It was his mother's," she said quietly. "She's dead too."

And finally, Harry felt some grief for the boy who'd been his enemy since the first day of school. He thought about Malfoy, his mother dead, whom he loved so much.

_She had to die. She was wrong_, said a voice into his head.

"You cannot punish someone by killing him," said Hermione, tears streaking down her cheeks, and Harry realized he had spoken out loud.

"Of course not. I am sorry for him. For everything," he said, and it was true.

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea and looking at the bright sky above us. Harry remembered the little girl standing beside him. _It is enchanted to look like the sky outside_, she'd said. _I read it in _Hogwarts: a History. So much had changed, and yet it was the same girl now sitting across him and playing idly with Malfoy's ring. She was strong, just as he was. They could take it.

"We have to stop this madness," Hermione said, matter-of-factly. "Did you find out anything about the Horcruxes?"

"The Bible riddle is too difficult," he answered. "But listen to this: Sirius found out about a Water of Wisdom – you just have to sip it and you'll know everything."

Hermione cleaned her tears with the back of his hands.

"It must be the water of the Fountain of Wisdom," she said, and Harry was instantly annoyed with her. Was there _anything_ she didn't know? Did she mean to sit there and tell him that she'd known all along that some water made you omniscient?

"I thought it was a legend," she continued. "And even if it wasn't, well, the Bradàn Feasa ate the hazels, so it's just ordinary water now, isn't it?"

Harry had no idea of what she was saying and he didn't care much.

"My mother found out it wasn't. The Water makes you omniscient, and she knew who had a bottle of it."

Hermione looked transfixed.

"Sirius found out…and your mother…" She remembered the book, the _Macgnimartha Finn_ she'd found in Sirius' room. "Oh."

"A Theodore Carter has it," whispered Harry. "A Potions master."

"I _know_ who Carter is!" snapped Hermione. "Honestly. But isn't he dead?"

"I dunno," said Harry, suddenly worried. "Should he?"

"Well, he was Cagliostro's last disciple," she said maddeningly.

"So?"

"Count Alessandro di Cagliostro," she said, pronouncing it very loudly and clearly. "An Italian Alchemist. He died in 1795."

Harry stared at her.

"But Carter was still alive three years ago, Snape mentioned him in class," added Hermione quickly.

"I'll ask Dumbledore."

"Yes, and you could also"

Hermione stopped in mid-sentence. A barn owl was flying towards their table, a roll of parchment tied to his leg. "And what is that bird doing here? It is not mail time."

"Well, they sometimes" said Harry, and stopped at the look on Hermione's face.

"He's Brown," she said, perplexed.

"Er…and owls are normally…?"

The owl landed with a soft thump in front of Hermione. She tried to pat him, but he looked at her rather superciliously.

"Ok, now I'm sure it's him. _Brown_, Harry," she snapped, seeing Harry frowning. "Rita Skeeter's owl."

Harry sighed.

"What now? Does she want to know if I have an Hyppogriff tattoed on my chest?"

As Hermione unrolled her mail, the owl took off, managing to break a mug in the process. Harry tried to Vanish the hot tea before it dripped on his pants – Hermione, however, didn't do anything. She was reading through some papers which appeared to be letters from different authors. Most of them were pink or red. Hermione scanned quickly through them, then she passed them wordlessly at Harry over the table.

Wondering what on earth was happening with Rita Skeeter, Harry took the pile and started to read.

_Dearest Lucius,_

_I hope we can meet one day, when you are released. I'm sure it will be soon, you cannot be guilty – you are so handsome, and your eyes are so blue…I can tell that you are a very good person, and I think that you would like me. I'm also blonde, and stunningly beautiful, though my eyes are brown (I could try with a transplant, if you mind them)._

_Please please please write me back._

_Mel_

_PS I enclosed 14 of my eyelashes!!! xxxxxx_

Harry stared. What…?

"An eye transplant? Is that even possible?"

"Not if you're a Muggle, it isn't. And you missed the important bit."

"'I enclosed 14 of my eyelashes'?" said Harry, laughing.

Hermione snatched the letter back.

"Harry," she said, her voice very serious. "This girl is writing to Lucius Malfoy."

"_What?_ How…?"

But Harry's eyes had found the second letter, the one whose paper was of the most lurid pink.

_Mr Malfoy,_

_no doubt you'll find bizarre to receive a letter from a complete stranger, but I must say this, I really must: from the first time I saw you, I fell totally in love with you. Totally. Totally. Totally._

"She repeats it…thirty-two times!" said Harry in disbelief. "Who are these people?"

"Well, apparently Muggles found out that there is a Lucius Malfoy, and that he's in prison," said Hermione darkly.

"How can you tell they're Muggles?"

"It's obvious. Look at the cute little mice on this paper: they are not moving. In a wizarding letter, they'd already have eaten the little hearts. Also," she added, "one of them mentions stuff like posh cars and movies. Another promises to write to Mr Blair."

Seeing the blank look on Harry's face, Hermione said impatiently, "The Muggle Minister."

Harry mumbled something and read another letter, whose author had underlined every word with little hearts.

"Do you think it could be a Death Eaters' ploy? I mean, telling the Muggles that he's in Azkaban?"

Hermione looked sceptical.

"Mr Malfoy is safer in Azkaban than out here, so I don't reckon that it was a plan of sorts. Maybe someone just left the sheet about him lying around, and a Muggle sent it to a newspaper."

"Maybe," said Harry, frowning.

Then, just as he was thinking that he would vomit if he saw another pink heart badly drawn, the letter into his hands caught fire. He dropped it hastily – a second later, only ashes remained on the table. He heard Hermione's startled squeal, he looked up quickly: every letter had been destroyed. Little piles of fuming ashes were scattered on the oak table.

"Well, now I know it's definitely Rita who sent them," said Hermione, Vanishing the burned letters with her wand. "She probably wants to sell them to the _Daily Prophet_, and fears we might outbid her."

"But why sending them to you at all, then?" asked Harry irritably, wiping some ash from his shirt.

"Oh, you don't know her as I do," was the calm answer.

"And I don't want to," said Harry, standing up. "Lucius Malfoy wont' see these letters anyway – it's just a stupid mistake, it'll die out. I'll go to Dumbledore's office now, and ask about Carter. Are you going back to the lab?"

Hermione bit her lip.

"No," she said finally. "I'll work in the library."

Harry left, and Hermione found herself alone with her wedding ring. She took it out of her pocket and looked at it. It surely was a beautiful ring, but what was she supposed to do with it? Malfoy hadn't expected her to _wear_ it, had he? Because she couldn't do that, she really couldn't.

Hermione held it out towards the light, so that it shimmered and gleamed. She tried to imagine Draco Malfoy proposing to her and failed. She tried to picture him as he asked her out for a date, and a faint blush came to her cheeks. Yes, maybe she would have accepted. Draco was smart enough. He was just too arrogant, and racist, and, well, on the wrong side. But he was also good-looking and had a sharp sense of humour and – Hermione's heart stopped in her chest as she realized that Draco Malfoy was not any of those things.

He was dead.

Rather despite her, she felt tears swelling in her eyes. _We have done nothing_, she thought, as more tears blotted her face.

"Miss Granger!" called a squeaky voice behind her. "I'm sorry to disturb you, I just wanted to ask"

Hermione turned round and saw tiny Professor Flitwick rushing towards her.

"Oh," he said, noticing her tears. "So you know?"

"It's nothing," said Hermione, cleaning her face with the back of her hand. "Know what?"

"Ron Weasley has left. Professor Grubbly Plank met him in the Entrance Hall this morning – she'd come to see the Headmistress and see if she could help for next year."

Hermione stood up so quickly that her knees collided with the table. Her mouth went dry. Ron wouldn't leave without telling them, without a reason. He wouldn't leave Harry, he wouldn't leave…her.

"He left?" she whispered.

"He left."

_A/N – First of all let me say that I'm very touched by your reviews. I know it's saccharine, but it really fills my heart to hear you say that the story is interesting and that you like my writing. It means a lot for me, as I hope one day to write something mine. Thank you._

_Also, I NEED YOUR HELP! I need one more letter to Lucius for a later chapter, and I not good at this sort of things…I mean, maybe I was at 14, I dunno…So I was wondering, if any of you is 14 or feels like 14 and wants to write a very foolish letter to Lucius Malfoy, it would be great! It doesn't have to be very long or complicated…just mindless dribbling…Well, think about it. I'm planning to use it maybe around July 20th, so you have plenty of time. You can email me or post them here, as you like. Unleash your imagination and free your soul! _

_**Hilaria**__ – it's true that Unforgivables are used a lot in fanfiction, and very little in Canon. To be sincere, I was a little perplexed by seeing a Death Eater using _Tarantallegra_ against Neville – but maybe you are right, people do not use them all the time because they are, well, 'unforgivable'. And maybe you have to be very focussed and drain a lot of energy too. Hope we'll know with Book 7._

_**jamy21**__ – well, as I said I've tried before and it didn't work too well, but I'd love the opportunity to improve my writing and so…why not? Thank you for offering! The only thing is, I'd like to give days for futures updates, and sometimes I finish the chapters really late…how long do you need?_

_Barnabas Cuffe, according to HPLexicon (really don't know how they worm out such information) is the editor of the _Daily Prophet_, but we do not know what does it look like or if he is on good terms with Scrimgeour._

_Oddpick's article on goblins once made the headline; Dempster Widdleswade is "of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but also addresses legal problems for the _Prophet's_ Problem Page" (and again, how do they know such stuff?)_

Let every eye negotiate for itself _is Shakespeare's (_Much Ado About Nothing, _II, I, 178)_

_The name of Rita's owl comes from British journalist Tina Brown._

_Cagliostro is a real person (1743-1795), though it is unclear whether he was a simple traveller and 'magician' or a true scientist/alchemist. He's best known for his dubious role in the 'affair of the diamond necklace' – the jewel which was stolen from French queen Marie Antoinette. If I'm not mistaken, Dumas uses him as a character._

_Fourteen eyelashes is in reference to Joey's stalker in _Friends_, a woman who thinks that he actually is Doctor Drake Raimoray…_

Next Update: July 1st


	12. Chapter 12

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 12 – The Day After Tomorrow**

The New Muggle Prime Minister was sitting in his office, a blank look on his face. He'd been clicking on the switch of his desk lamp for fifteen minutes, and Mrs McCutcheon, his secretary, was ready to eat her own head in annoyance.

"Er – Sir?" she said cautiously.

The Minister jumped to his feet.

"Yes – yes – where was I?"

Mrs McCutcheon scanned through her notes.

"You wished the Emir good luck for the birth of his forty-fifth son."

"Of course," said the Minister, passing his hand through his hair. He was sweating. "I think that's it. Unless you think I should add something more, of course."

Mrs McCutcheon stared at him. What _was_ wrong with the man?

"Sir, meaning no disrespect, but I hardly think I am in the position of suggesting anything," she said, very clearly.

The Minister was barely listening to her.

"As you say. That's all. See you," he said, pushing aside a heavy curtain and looking out of the window. He quickly let the curtain fall again and raced away from the wall, as though he expected a commando of oliphaunts to break through it. "Unless," he added, and his secretary stopped on her way to the door. "Could you ask Mr Shashmh to come in here for a moment?"

Mrs McCutcheon frowned. The Minister's voice had gone so soft she hadn't caught the name.

"I'm sorry – who should I call?"

"Mr…Mr…" The Minister seemed frightened. Again, he walked to the window and peered out of it. "The black guy outside my office," he said in a rush, his back to the door.

"Of – of course, sir."

The Minister heard her go out and sighed. He didn't know how much he could take of this. _I'm a politician_, he thought. _I can take things_. He'd actually thought he could take all sort of things, but apparently he'd been wrong. To his dismay, he'd discovered that he was not only cynical, which he knew and somehow came with the job, but also egoistic. He _did_ care what people thought about him. He wanted them to understand his choices. And, more importantly, he wanted them to understand that there were things he had no control over.

In the past year, nearly everything had happened to his predecessor: broken bridges, dozens of deaths, hurricanes, disappearances…And he'd not been unhappy about it. After all, it had culminated with the man being sent away – and now this office was _his_.

Leading the country, though, had not been as he'd imagined it would. In the last few weeks, he'd been scared to death by a talking portrait, known that a hidden world existed and that an inhabitant of that world was sitting outside his office; meanwhile, broken bridges, deaths and disappearances had multiplied.

And that had been nothing.

That he could take. He was a young man, his heart was in a pretty good shape. He was a fighter. He'd tried to keep on as usual, and he had thought he'd succeeded.

But now, the whole world thought Britain had secret prisons in which it secretly held prisoners who were secretly tortured in there. Every day the Minister got calls from various important people, and all wanted to shout at him. France was outraged; Germany offered advice; Australia said he was disgracing the good name of the Commonwealth (_As if_, the Minister had thought); the United States ranted about giving a bad image of the Western world (_What a nerve_, the Minister had thought); and the newly instated UN Secretary-General called every ten minutes to plead and insult him and demand that something had to be done at once.

The Minister agreed; only, he couldn't do anything. He had no idea about Lucius Malfoy's true identity – it had to be a fake name, since the man had no birth certificate, no tax documents, no residence – and moreover he didn't know where he was kept. He'd threatened half of the MI5, but they didn't know either.

Meanwhile, his popularity had sunk to 12 and Amnesty International organized daily pickets in front of his house.

"Did you ask for me, sir?" said a soft voice. Kingsley Shacklebolt had entered the room, and the Minister stared at him.

He'd been told the man was a wizard, but he couldn't quite believe it. He was wearing a nice cut suit and he looked all professional and normal, a black classifier in his left hand and an expensive-looking cell-phone in his right.

"Come in," the Minister said nervously.

Shacklebolt shut the door behind him and stood still, waiting for instructions. He seemed so good-naturedly _tame_.

"Er – I'd like to ask you about…about…Oh, you know."

The man didn't move.

"What about that?" he said.

The Minister felt a wave of relief run through his body. So, unless the guy was some secret spy and was playing along, he really knew.

"This Lucius Malfoy business is destroying my reputation. You have to do something about him."

Shacklebol frowned.

"We have done something about him. He's in prison."

"Well, you have to release him."

"Release him?"

"Look, I got calls every day from people who want to know where he is. Quite a few of my voters are convinced I'm keeping him as my personal slave. This has to end. You'll bring this man in a…a normal prison, and he'll talk to lawyers, and Amnesty –"

"We will," said Shacklebolt slowly, "do no such thing."

The Minister flushed.

"Look, whatever he did he'll still be in prison. I –"

Shacklebolt smiled, and the Minister stopped in mid-sentence.

"What's funny?" he asked, his voice icy.

"You want to put Malfoy in one of your…er…prisons? He'll be out of there in a second."

The Minister puffed with indignation.

"Of course he won't!"

"Look, this is not open to discussion."

"'Not open to discussion'?" said the Minister, his hands shaking so badly that he stuffed them into his pockets, trying to hide how upset he was. "Wait a minute, I thought you were a policeman – you're here for my protection, right? You've no _authority_ to negotiate with me! I'm the Prime Minister!"

There was an audible _click_, and the Minister jumped. Shacklebolt had snapped his phone shut.

"I have enough authority to tell you that you shouldn't talk about things you don't understand. You're lucky to be alive. Only yesterday they slipped and Exploding Fluid in your afternoon tea."

"What's an – forget it. Who did this?"

Shacklebolt narrowed his eyes.

"Someone who took orders from the man Malfoy used to serve before he was caught."

The Minister staggered and clenched his desk for support.

"This man?" he asked, looking at the newspaper lying on it. Lucius Malfoy, handsome and supercilious, smiled engagingly from the Muggle picture. "This man wants me dead?"

"Dead or unable to think by yourself. Dead would be better, probably. The country would be chaotic for a while, this always happens."

The Minister tried to shrink away from the idea that in a war, the best strategy was to cut the snake's head. _His _head. Then something else hit him, and he went very still.

"So this is a war? We are at war?"

Shacklebolt nodded, and the Minister paled.

"And what are you doing about it?"

"What we can," was the cautious answer.

HHH

Hermione crushed her Glumbumble shell without enthusiasm. Two months had passed since Snape had agreed to work with her, but she had the unhelpful impression that not much was happening.

Ron had disappeared. Harry had gone looking for Theodore Carter and had not returned yet, though he'd sent some annoyingly short notes to say that he was all right. Her parents, on the other hand, had sent her a box of low-sugar Swiss chocolate (_Remember to brush your teeth twice afterwards!_) which tasted like paperboard. And Snape was creepy. He never talked unless he had to; he spent his time sitting on a desk, staring at her as she worked. Hermione was starting to be seriously irritated by his behaviour. So ok, he was this Big Servant of Evil, but it wasn't fun to be stared at for hours. He could have said something – so much was left unsaid about the weather!

"Pay attention, Potter," said his silky voice from the shadow, and she jumped.

She'd been crushing the shell too violently; it was like sand already.

"I'm sorry, sir," she mumbled, and then she bit her tongue: Harry would not apologize to _him_.

"You are lazy, boy," said Snape, and Hermione turned to look at him.

He was perching on the front desk like a huge, malevolent vulture. His black cloak hid his bound hands – only his long, pale fingers were visible between the heavy folds. He looked as impatient as ever, the very image of the Discontented Teacher, but there was something more hidden into his transparent eyes – a sort of malicious joy. Hermione was suddenly sure her Professor thought she couldn't do this, she wouldn't succeed.

"I'm follow your instructions," she said, avoiding his title. "It's a complicated potion."

"Yes. Beyond your abilities, apparently."

Hermione clenched her fists.

_The joke is on you, filthy bat_, she thought angrily. _You think I'm Harry, and maybe Harry couldn't do this potion, but _I _can._

A rush of pride flushed her cheeks as she looked around her. Flasks and bottles and crushed ingredients were sitting on almost every table, neatly labelled; two concoctions were simmering over a low fire, while a third one had been enclosed into an Ice Globe and had completely frozen. It was the most complicated potion she'd ever seen, and it would take another month to be ready, but she was doing it. She really was.

"And what use could you have for it, one wonders."

Hermione's face shut, her pride and joy suddenly under the surface.

"Keep wondering," she blurted out. "I'm not telling you."

Snape's eyes flashed.

"Do not cross the line," he hissed.

Hermione ignored him. She felt Snape's eyes on her, so focussed that she thought they'd burn through her clothes. Then she heard him speak again.

"How dare you think to fight the Dark Lord? He will crush you!"

Hermione tried to steady her breath, her heart pumping madly. How did he dare…How could he sit there and tell this to her face? How could he think to be better than them, to know what they could or couldn't do?

"What do you think? That you'll to go to Heaven?"

His voice was heavy with syrupy sarcasm, and Hermione turned to face him, the mortar still in her hands.

"I am no child to be scared into my duty by the threats of fire!" she shouted. "You do not fight to please your Maker – you fight for you, because you cannot stand aside while your fiends are dying!"

Snape seemed taken aback by her reaction. He'd gotten even paler, and a vein was pulsating on his temple.

"There is no victory for you," he whispered.

"You don't get it, do you? You _Slytherin_! Victory is but a whim, a toy on the lips of generals. I have to fight because it is the right thing to do. And so do you – I saw the boy you were – I know you have suffered – but you will not have your vengeance by serving the Enemy. I know you can feel in your heart that your place is with us."

HHH

_Finn bade farewell to Crimall, and went to learn poetry from Finneces, who was on the Boyne. He durst not remain in Ireland else, until he took to poetry, for fear of the sons of Urgriu, and of the sons of Morna. _

_Seven years Finneces had been on the Boyne, watching the salmon of Fec's Pool; for it had been prophesied of him that he would eat the salmon of Fee, after which nothing would remain unknown to him. The salmon was found, and Demne was then ordered to cook it; and the poet told him not to eat anything of the salmon. The youth brought him the salmon after cooking it. "Hast thou eaten any of the salmon, my lad?" said the poet. _

"_No," said the youth, "but I burned my thumb, and put it into my mouth afterwards." _

"_What is thy name, my lad?" said he. _

"_Demne," said the youth. _

"_Finn is thy name, my lad," said he; "and to thee was the salmon given to be eaten, and indeed thou art the Finn." Thereupon the youth ate the salmon. It is that which gave the knowledge to Finn, so that, whenever he put his thumb into his mouth and sang through teinm laida, then whatever he had been ignorant of would be revealed to him. _

_He learnt the three things that constitute a poet: teinm laida, imbas forosna, and dichetul dichennaib. It is then Finn made this lay to prove his poetry: _

_May-day, season surpassing! Splendid is colour then. _

_Blackbirds sing a full lay, if there be a slender shaft of day.  
The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud: Welcome, splendid summer! _

_The bitterness of bad weather is past, the boughs of the wood are a thicket.  
Summer cuts the river down, the swift herd of horses seeks the pool,_

_the long hair of the heather is outspread, the soft white bog-down grows.  
Panic startles the heart of the deer,_

_the smooth sea runs apace-season when ocean sinks asleep-blossom covers the world.  
Bees with puny strength carry a goodly burden,_

_the harvest of blossoms; up the mountain-side kine take with them mud, _

_the ant makes a rich meal.  
The harp of the forest sounds music, the sail gathers-perfect peace. _

_Colour has settled on every height, haze on the lake of full waters.  
The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses;_

_the lofty virgin waterfall sings a welcome to the warm pool; the talk of the rushes is come.  
_

"'The lofty virgin waterfall'? Who speaks like that?" asked Ginny Weasley, plopping down at the Gryffindor's table.

"Well, this boy does," said Lavender, and several other girls giggled.

Ginny surveyed them with dislike. Lavender was sitting in the middle of a group of sixth-year girls, and all of them had perfect hair and perfect make-up. People were dying every day; families thorn apart; Voldemort was getting stronger any minute – and these girls still had time to put mascara on their lashes.

"What are you reading?" she asked, reaching for a plate of biscuits.

"Hermione's idea of _Playwizard_," said a blonde girl Ginny knew by sight. "_The Boyhood Deeds of Finn McCumhaill._"

The girls giggled again, and Lavender sighed.

"Because Finn is so blond, Finn is so heroic, Finn fights so well. And look, he writes poetry."

Before she could start to read aloud again, Ginny had snatched the book off her hands.

"This is Harry's book!" she said.

Lavender shrugged.

"It was on Hermione's bedside. I just wanted to see what it was."

"Did you ask?" Ginny's icy tone didn't mask the fluttering of her heart – Harry's book in Hermione's room? When had he been there? Why?

Lavender shrugged again.

"You're just annoyed because he's there all the time."

"He's not!"

"He is! I've seen him – even late in the evening and," her voice lowered in a dramatic whisper, "very early in the morning."

"No!" said the blonde girl, while the others looked at Lavender with hungry looks on their faces. "So they are…?"

Lavender smiled viciously.

"And sometimes, I hear her mumbling at night…_Yes…I want you…_"

"Stop it! Harry would never had sex with Hermione!"

"Wouldn't he?" said a voice behind her, and Ginny snapped around.

Hermione was standing there, looking very tired, her eyes curiously blank. After a moment, though, she smiled, and Ginny relaxed.

"That's a pity. I was planning to sell my story to the _Daily Prophet_. _The Boy who Moaned: Harry Potter in Bed_."

Everyone laughed, and Hermione sighed.

About one third of the students had returned, but there was little shred of normalcy: the Slytherins' table was almost empty, and even the staff table looked diminished. Dumbledore's seat had been left unoccupied; Hagrid was away – apparently a group of giants in Bulgaria had demanded a treatise with the Order. Professor Sinistra and Professor Vector had not returned, and Professor Slughorn had vanished about one week before the start of term. Headmistress McGonagall had announced that the staff would try to cover as many subjects as possible, but for some there was little hope. None of those who were left was qualified to teach Arithmancy, for instance, or Potions. Of course, the Headmistress had a perfectly working Potions Master up her sleeve, but she had no intention of making use of him.

The other Gryffindors had been very excited to find out that Duelling clubs and Healer's basic trainings would be offered to students, but to Hermione this, while a good idea, only underlined their defeat: Hogwarts was no more a school, but a refugees shelter. The students who were left were mostly Muggle-born, or their families were too poor to protect their own houses – they had been sent to school for their protection.

Even empty-headed Lavender Brown seemed somehow alone and desperate without Parvati – the rumour was that she and Padma were hiding with some relatives.

And Ginny…Hermione looked at her and felt a rush of affection. Her whole family was fighting, her brother was missing, the boy she loved had been taken away from her. And yet, she resisted, her fiery red hair illuminating the moist November afternoon like a torch of hope.

_A/N_

_Hi! I'm very sorry about the delay…We had the most horrible storm here, and everything exploded – TV, telephone, Internet…So now I'm using a public library connection, hoping that some blue man will come at my house to fix everything. _

_Although it is thrilling to be suddenly cut off the world and alone in the house, winds howling and heavy rain splattering on the windows, cats curled under the beds and the like, it is also very annoying, since I was planning to finish this story before July 21__st_

_And now I don't know if I can, since I have to check and re-check HP Lexicon (duh, am I ever going to learn which Malfoy has which eyes?)…_

…_so I won't give you any dates. I promise I'll do the best I can to write quickly, because this fan fiction thing is fun as long as you don't know how the actual story ends, but I don't think it'll be fun anymore after Book 7. I mean, if the writer is good (and JKR is), you don't have the need to rewrite the story, have you? I'll never dream to re-write Dumas or Dickens. Muse forbid! _

_So I can tell you that I want to finish this story, and that I pretty much know how this will finish; I'll try to update as quickly as I can, maybe a few pages every day? – depending on the Library's opening hours…Sorry about this and hope you enjoy!_

_Also, I tried to keep this as Muggle-canon as possible, but there is an impasse: Harry's 7th year would be in 1997, the year Tony Blair won the elections; and, as I remember it, there was a good deal of optimism through the country, which contrasts with what's happening in Magic World. So TB is depressed in this fic, because really, Dementors are everywhere and he knows it. Sorry!_

_Martine McCutcheon, aka Natalie, is High Grant's secretary in _Love Actually.


	13. Chapter 13

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 13 – The Last Hallowe'en**

Ron blinked and sat up slowly. He was in a forest clearing, and had no idea on how he'd got there. His wand was still in the belt of his jeans, as was his wallet; so he'd not been attacked. His head pounding furiously, he took a look around, looking for clues – and then he saw an empty bottle of Archenland wine lying on the grass beside him.

"Ouch," he said, reaching for it.

_Have I been so stupid?_

He smelled the bottle and flashes of memory came back to him. A liqueur shop in Hogsmaede; Harry coming out of Hermione's room, at dawn; wandering off in the Forest, taking sips from the bottle…

Archenland wine was the heaviest alcohol ever devised by wizardkind. It was normally drank diluted with water, and in very small quantities. Lee Jordan had once downed three glasses of it at his aunt's wedding and had spent a week in a state of shock, saying to his distressed mother that they would always have Paris.

_I must have passed out,_ Ron thought. _But how long have I been here?_

He searched his pockets, but there was nothing useful in them: a bag of sweets, a U-NO-POO, a chess magazine and a Fainting Fancy. Ron turned his wand on his watch.

"_Tempus computa_," he said, waving it.

This was a useful spell of Hermione's, which made the watch work like a calendar. The draw-back was that time was still indicated in hours.

_1926_, flashed the watch, and Ron frowned.

This was more than two months – was it possible? He absently passed his hand on his chin and froze. There was a _beard_ there. Well, not a hairy, Hagrid's beard, but still some very long hairs, soft and curly.

Ron stood up and was violently sick. How stupid he'd been? What if everything was over? What if You-Know-Who had won, and his parents were dead? And Harry…and Hermione…

As soon as he could catch his breath, he prepared himself for Apparition.

"Number 12, Grimmauld Palace," he said shakily.

HH

Ginny Weasley was annoyed. There were four hours left until the Hallowe'en Feast, and she didn't know what to wear. Not that she'd care, normally, but Hermione had gotten an owl from Harry at breakfast – he said he'd finally found the place he was looking for and that he'd probably be back in time for the Feast. And Ginny wanted to look beautiful. And disinterested in Harry, totally over him. Yes, that was the key. Over him.

She emptied her lingerie drawer. _I'm over him_, she chanted. _I'm choosing clothes. Now, which one of the bras will make Harry's mouth water?_

She took a red one, then discharged it. She rummaged for some time, and in the end she selected a white one with a pretty lace. She used a Summoning Charm on the matching knickers and then turned to choose a dress.

This was, alas, easier. She only had two dresses, and one of them she had not worn since she was eight. She took the other one out of the closet and surveyed it critically, then tapped it with her wand. It turned green, a deep, forest green. Ginny stood back, then her face alighted in a wicked smile and she tapped the dress again.

The corsage became slightly transparent.

HH

Meanwhile, Harry was thinking that he may not return to Hogwarts any time soon, after all.

"I might have it," repeated the old man. "But why should I give it to you?"

Harry stood rooted in place. Theodore Carter had turned out to be very different from what he'd thought he'd be like. After having spoken to Dumbledore's portrait, he had imagined a kind old man, quite senile; he was ashamed now, but Harry had rather thought that it would be enough to pop in and say, I'm famous Harry Potter and I need the Water of Wisdom.

Instead, the man in front of him seemed very shrewd, and quite determined to have everything his way; he was frail and wrinkled, but still a master of his wits. Harry had already used every ounce of ability he possessed just to find the secret lab and to be admitted into it; he felt unable to win another challenge.

"I need it," Harry said, "for the war."

"Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost."

"Er…" Harry said, moving one pace forward. The old man had turned away from him and was staring at his many books.

"I said," said Carter gently, "that for a man as old as I am, war doth not mean much. All have to die; and war is but one servant of the Patient Lady."

"And that would be Death," guessed Harry, looking at the countless bottles lined on the shelves.

"Yes, boy, that would be Death." Carter turned around and looked at Harry, suddenly stern. "There is nothing you can say that will make me hand you the most precious ingredient in my collection."

Harry tried hard not to reply to this. A calm fury was creeping through his veins. This foolish man had a solution to stop all the crimes and horrible things Voldemort was doing, and he refused point blank to help him.

"The Water of Life," Carter went on, "has been collected by Finneces himself and has passed from a Master to another for all this centuries. And the rule is one: if you want to possess it, you must kill he who has it."

Harry's heart, which had seemed to work at double rate for the last thirty minutes, now stopped for a second.

"You mean," Harry said, his throat dry, "that I have to kill you if I want it?"

Carter smiled placidly.

"I will not fight you. I am not a man of action."

He put his right hand inside his jacket and took a crystal vial out of it. A clear liquid glimmered into it, swirling furiously even though Carter was keeping the vial perfectly still.

Harry looked at it, transfixed. The truth – the truth about everything, bottled and labelled, ready for use.

As soon as Carter put the vial down on a desk, Harry lunged for it – only to find out that the vial was now on a shelf behind him. He tried to take it again, and the vial disappeared from his hands, reappearing on a windowsill in the farthest corner of the room.

Carter chuckled softly.

"Kill me, and it will be yours. There is no other way."

_Think_, Harry thought. But nothing came to his mind. On the contrary, quite a number of useless thoughts encumbered his mind. The Mirror of Erised, for instance, was a magical object which could not be stolen, or donated, or destroyed; only when its owner had died the Mirror could have a new one. There were a number of magical objects which worked that way, mainly to prevent theft; most of them, as far as Harry knew, were enchanted jewels. But he'd never heard of objects which could leave their owners if they were killed; then again, he'd never heard of lot of things. He suddenly wished Hermione were there.

A memory of Hermione flashed in front of his eyes, and Harry heard her voice, as clear as if she were in Bath with him.

_You said to us once before hat there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?_

Hermione and Ron had stayed with him, even if it was very dangerous. Now Ron had disappeared, and Harry didn't know anything about where he was – whether he'd been caught, if he was still alive…

He closed his eyes for a second. _I am _not _going to turn back_, he mouthed. Then he opened his eyes and threw himself at Carter, easily pinning him to the floor.

Theodore Carter was old and weak, and, as he'd said, he was not fighting back. Harry closed his hands on the man's throat, hating the feeling of papery skin under his palms. That man was so old, his life was like a tiny candle inside a huge, dark cathedral in which he lived.

HH

Everything seemed normal in Grimmauld Palace. Unwashed plates in the sink, unwashed clothes in Tonks' room, and a pile of old Daily Prophets whose only exciting piece of news was Lucius Malfoy talking in front of a crowd of adoring Muggles.

What did heartbroken people eat? Ron didn't know. He'd never been heartbroken. Not even now, he wasn't. Two months of stupor had cured him from his disappointment and his rage and his infatuation. If Harry was happy with Hermione, good for him – the guy had a war to face.

Ron rummaged into Grimmauld Palace's gigantic fridge, looking for something to eat. The house was empty, and its dark, cavernous alleys underlined perfectly the hollow feeling inside Ron's chest.

In the end, he found a packet of Finest Self-Warming Gorgonzola Cheese Ravioli which had probably been saved for some special occasion ("I'm for two people!" the packet had shouted in a shrilly voice, when Ron had opened it). Ron, however, didn't listen to it. Here was solid food, and not a single drop of alcohol in the whole thing. Sounded perfect.

As he put the plate on the table, he noticed that it was not empty, after all. There was a scribbling running over the wood, which was normally, Ron was sure about this, perfectly polished. He passed his hand over it and it shuffled a little.

"_Specialis revelio_," he said, his mouth watering as he bent over the food to reach the thing with his wand.

The plan of a building appeared out of thin air. Ron, shovelling the delicate Ravioli down his throat, opened it. A huge place was depicted on it: dozens of rooms, and perhaps several floors too. Ron wondered for a moment what that could be, then he noticed a little script – Bill's hand, if he was not mistaken – in the corner:

_University Museum of Natural History, Oxford._

Ron frowned. He'd never heard about it: this museum had to be a Muggle place. He knew of Oxford, of course – Hermione had droned on and on about the Department of Experimental Theology of its University. But what could the Order want with a Muggle museum?

Suddenly, a feeling of dare seized him. Why shouldn't he find out? He could Apparate and visit the place, and maybe he could find out something which would help Harry. Ron stared at the map, hardly breathing.

Yes, he would do it. But first he would have some chocolate cake.

HH

It had been a fine day, but it was unnaturally cold for the end of October; down in the dungeons it was even colder, and the persistent darkness had been an immediate downfall for Hermione's mood. Trying to cheer herself up, she'd lit a huge fire in the heart. Snape had spent the last hour nagging about it, and it was annoying to admit that he'd been right. It was too hot to work on a potion, too hot to keep one's mind clear and avoid dangerous mistakes; but what was done was done, and Hermione would have bitten her tongue off before admitting to him that she was wrong.

She focussed on the potion. It was almost finished. Hermione could barely believe it, but the artificial poison looked exactly like Gudrun Lindgren said it should at this stage. It was dark and viscous and perfectly still in Snape's finest silver cauldron. She checked the article again. All she needed to do now was to add Lobalug poison – a tricky task, as the poison had to be extracted from the living animal.

Looking around, she saw the tank in which the Lobalug was squashing merrily. Just behind it, Snape was sitting on his favourite desk, his cloak closed, looking forbidding and unaffected by the warm temperature.

If she was honest, she would miss working with him after all. Even if he'd been unpleasant, sarcastic and downright insulting at times, it had been a real privilege to have the undivided attention of a Master. If this was what University felt like, she couldn't wait for it. Of course, Snape hadn't meant to teach her anything, but all the same he'd been true to his word, giving her instructions, correcting her mistakes and taking over when the process became too complex. It was a pleasure to watch him work.

HH

It was a pleasure to watch him work, Severus thought resentfully. Who'd have thought that Harry Potter could be so deft with potions? Of course, Severus had no problem to admit – to himself at least – that Slughorn was a better teacher than he himself had ever been; he was ill-suited for teaching, and he knew it. If he'd taken the post, it had been on the Dark Lord's orders, and after his disappearance it had been his only rempart against Azkaban.

But he'd managed to teach Potter something, after all – the basic knowledge was there – and apparently Slughorn had had some influence on the boy's aptitude to the subject. Hadn't the fool said that the boy was the best in his year? And this with perfect Granger in the same room, too. What an achievement.

Severus watched Potter as he lowered the fire. All the vials and the cauldrons had been cleaned away; only one remained, a silver one, his oldest and favourite, currently full of what was almost artificial Basilisk poison. He didn't want to investigate on his reasons for allowing Potter to use his most precious cauldron for his little game; and he didn't want to understand why flashes of the boy, of his delicate movements, of his clever questions, haunted his nights and made his fingers tickle with impatience.

He'd once dreamed about standing in the shadows, unseen, as the boy bathed; and the dream-Severus had been very aroused by the sight. Reality-Severus, on the contrary, was most unsettled. He knew where his preferences lay, and boys were definitely out of the question – Lucius could talk as long as he wanted about Decadence and the delicate beauty of underage boys – Severus had never been tempted.

And above all, he couldn't be tempted by the idiotic Potter boy – lazy, arrogant, short-sighted – a boy whose only grace was what Lily had left in him: her eyes, Severus counted silently in his head, watching the boy move towards the Lobalug tank; her sense of humour; her curiosity; her pale skin and large cheekbones…

The boy was speaking to him and Severus, feeling rather warm, his fingers prickling, forced himself to listen.

HH

"Could you help me with this, please?" asked Hermione.

She'd been watching Snape covertly for the last minutes and she didn't like the look on his face. He seemed miles away, in some wild country she wasn't allowed in.

He sneered now, and frowned.

"I am not your servant, boy. Call a house-elf if you need help."

Hermione frowned too. She didn't want to call a house-elf – they had enough work to do as it was. Besides, extracting Lobalug poison was a tricky business, and definitely a two persons job – what she really wanted was for him to do it, while she assisted him, but she didn't know how to phrase her request.

"You said the Lobalug needed to be alive for its poison to keep his effectiveness," she said, trying to sound aggressive rather than defensive. "I cannot do this alone, and a house-elf wouldn't know where to start."

Snape didn't move for a while. Then, still looking grumpy and malevolent, he slid over to the tank.

Hermione had already prepared a second, smaller tank on the desk, which had enough water in it to keep the animal alive but would allow them to hold it properly. She checked it a last time, then plunged a hand into the bigger tank, fumbling hesitantly for the Lobalug.

The beast, seven inches long and very squishy, eluded her, then turned around and picked at her hand with its razor-sharp beak.

"Ouch!" she cried, splashing herself with water in her haste to take her hand away from it.

Snape, on the other side of the desk, narrowed his eyes.

Hermione, her head throbbing with pain, cradled her hand and tried to remember the effect of Lobalug poison.

_The Lobalug…_she thought, her _Magical Beasts_ book swimming in front of her eyes. _Its venom has light paralysing effects, which last from one hour to eight according to the animal's age._

Her right hand felt as though it had fell off: she could still feel it, and it was definitely there, reassuringly bound to her wrist, but she couldn't move one finger.

"Excellent work, Potter," said Snape, in a particularly sugary voice.

Hermione felt her temper rise.

"You do it, then, if you're so clever!" she spat, nursing her hand.

Snape gave her a deadly glare, then raised his bound hands.

"And how would you suggest me to proceed with these on?" he asked in a false, polite voice.

But Hermione had had enough. Snape had already wormed out from the most disgusting tasks using that excuse – and she was _not_ going to have her other hand paralysed, she would _not_ be laughed at again.

"_Libera_!" she snapped, pointing her wand at his wrists, her movement a little sluggish as she was using her left hand.

Snape's chains disappeared. The man had a strange look about him, as if he had half an idea to lunge at her, but he didn't. Instead, he unbuttoned the clasp of his cloak and took it off, folding it carefully on the desk. Underneath he was wearing the same white shirt Hermione had already seen. The first button was still missing.

Now that she could see his figure, she noticed that he was very thin – almost painfully thin. She'd never given a thought on how he spent the time she was not with him, and wondered whether he was eating at all – when she summoned plates of sandwiches from the kitchen, he never ate with her. The man seemed to live on air and shadows.

Suddenly feeling rather fat and greedy, she shifted her eyes on his face, and saw that he was looking at her intently. His eyes never leaving hers, he started to unbutton his right cuff and rolling up his sleeve. Against her will, Hermione's eyes stranded back on his bare arm, and she licked her lips, suddenly dry.

His skin was very pale, and blue veins seemed painted on it. It looked like a statue, the subtle muscles finely interlocked like a lace. He was completely hairless.

Her head bowed, she missed the look of mingled incredulity and longing that had crossed Snape's face as he surveyed her closely.

"Now watch how it's done," he said in a soft voice, and Hermione shivered.

Snape raised his arm, his eyes following the Lobalug's movement into the water. His hair were falling in front of his face, shadowing it. He stood so perfectly still that Hermione was afraid to breathe; then, without warning, his hand shoot into the water and out again, holding the beast delicately just below its beak.

"You don't want to hesitate. And once you have it, you hold it like a sword. Try."

Hermione swallowed, backing off from the dangling animal.

"What do you mean, like a sword?"

Snape smiled viciously, showing his yellowing teeth.

"We all have a tendency to forget that you were _bred_ by Muggles," he said, purring. He stopped one moment to savour the indignant look on Hermione's face, then went on. "You hold a sword too loose, and it will escape you; you hold it too tight, it will revolt against you."

Hermione didn't know what he was talking about, but it didn't matter. Her mind was been carried away by images of old musketeers movies, and she was breathing rather quicker then necessary.

Snape held the Lobalug out to her, and she took it with her left hand. Snape's hand covered her own, correcting her grip. As she stared at the twitching animal, Snape surveyed her critically.

"As fascinating as this lesson has been, it is time to put it into the water again, or it will die."

Hermione dropped it obediently into the small tank, and the small animal took a relieved lungful of water.

"Now," Snape went on, silkily, "As both my hands work, you will hold it down and I'll squeeze the poison out."

Hermione tried to hide how relieved she was: she'd been afraid of that part.

They both worked silently for a few minutes, Hermione keeping the Lobalug steady and Snape squeezing a small gland in the back of its throat with a delicate finger. Hermione's hand was almost numb when he was finished and a vial had been filled with the precious liquid. Snape held it up to the light, and nodded approvingly.

"Can I let it go?" asked Hermione, sweating.

"Not yet," said Snape lazily.

He corked the vial and walked slowly towards the silver cauldron. Hermione heard him put the vial on the desk. It made her nervous to have him behind her like that – and he didn't have his chains on, she thought, suddenly terrified. She loosened her pressure on the Lobalug, but before she could turn around Snape was pressing her into the desk, one arm pinning hers, the other forcing her mouth upwards, and he was kissing her savagely.

HH

Harry had forgotten about magic; he'd forgotten about killing spells and smashing spells and potions of death and despair. All he knew was that he was killing a man, and that it was wrong. He couldn't do this. He just couldn't. He rolled off Carter's body and collapsed on the cold floor. Putting his hands to his face, he was surprised to see that he'd been crying.

"I'm sorry," he said, without looking at the old man, who was now coughing beside him. "Are you all right?"

"Don't be sorry, my boy," said Carter in a gritty voice. "You did the right thing."

"I just…I can't."

"I know. I know everything about you, in fact. I knew you would come, and I knew you'd ask me for this."

Harry whipped around.

Carter was standing up, looking as calm and relaxed as though he got strangled each day by total strangers; and in his hand, which he held out to Harry, was a golden bottle.

"What…?" Harry was too shocked to stand up.

"Your heart is in the right place," said the old man, giving him the bottle.

And Harry understood at once that Carter had tricked him; the other vial had not been a wisdom potion, but a useless thing – or possibly some poison. Carter had been testing him all along and somehow – incredibly – because of that 'moral fibre' which had nearly made him drown – Harry had passed this test. He raised his trembling fingers towards the golden bottle, and as soon as his fingers touched the glass, he found himself outside, blinking in the sunlight, alone in the sunset – the Water of Wisdom glimmering into his hand.

HH

Ron was bored. The Muggles' idea of a Museum had turned out to be a huge building full of dead insects on sticks and stuffed animals. There were also dinosaurs' skeletons, which were more interesting, but as in wizarding museums they moved, Ron wasn't keen to investigate them. He was staring instead at the most fascinating thing in the whole building – a fossil of a winged man. As he tipped his head to one side, trying to get another angle, he heard a voice behind him.

"I never thought I'd meet in a place of culture."

Ron turned around.

Standing there, looking very elegant in a finely cut Muggle suit, was Wormtail. He was plump and healthy, and his silver hand was hidden under an expensive black glove.

"I never thought you thought," said Ron, his heart thumping in his chest.

Wormtail's face fell comically, but then he narrowed his watery eyes.

"Why don't I show you the secret rooms of this place?" he asked.

"I have a better idea," said Ron, glancing around, looking for more Death Eaters. "Why don't you bugger off in some drain?"

Now Wormtail seemed really furious.

"You will walk ahead of me in that corridor," he hissed, "Or I'll kill all these Muggles. You know I can do it – I've done it before, remember? I'm very good at Exploding Curses."

Ron took one last look at the beautiful, damaged angel in his glass coffin, then he squared his shoulders and started to walk.

HH

Despite the violence of the kiss, for the longest moment Hermione melted into it. It was sudden, and it was unexpected, but there was such _need_ in it, such _wanting_ of her that she was intoxicated – she wanted more. She kissed him back, and for one fleeting second her mind screamed _I'm kissing Professor Snape!_ But then thought was gone; all that was left was raw meat, and naked desire, and heat and stars.

Snape's hands never moved on her body; his left was still around her waist, securing her arm against her chest, while with his right hand he cupped her chin, keeping it tilted against him. His hair was silky against her cheeks, and she leaned into his caress even as he was biting and sucking her lips. She felt a slight pressure on the small of her back, and unconsciously she rubbed on it. Snape growled low in his throat, and pushed his tongue between her teeth.

And then, just as she was thinking that she didn't care, that she just _wanted_, that she just _needed_, Snape stopped. He backed away from her and turned around the desk, picking up his cloak, then walked quickly to the door of his chambers. He looked back once at her shocked face – his normally sallow skin was flushed, his discoloured eyes were shining like jewels, but his jaw was set. He stared at Hermione for only a second, and then he was gone.

Hermione had enough rationality left to drop the panicked Lobalug into the aquarium and take the Glamour off herself. She felt like collapsing – like fainting. She was trembling all over, she couldn't believe it had stopped. She still felt Snape's breath on her mouth and his arms holding her tight. She thought about dashing after him.

But instead she walked slowly to the lab door and opened it. A rush of very cold air hit her like a wave, and she staggered. Then she broke into a run, her eyes stinging.

HH

When Harry arrived to the castle, sweaty and tired, the Feast had already begun. He stopped in the empty Entrance Hall, listening contentedly at the music and the laughter coming from it, and he was seized with longing. Silently, he crept towards the door and peered in.

As there were so few students, Filch had set several small tables against the walls of the Hall. In the middle of it, some students were already dancing.

Ginny was among them, her green dress swirling as she moved gracefully, dancing with a Hufflepuff boy Harry didn't know.

Quite suddenly, as though following orders, Harry uncorked the golden bottle and took a small sip from it.

_What is Ginny thinking right now? _He asked wistfully.

The answer flashed at once, as though he'd always known it. But then, in a way he'd always known it. Only he had not known it with such vivid details. Or such crude language.

Harry blushed scarlet, and hid a bit more behind the heavy door. As he put the Water into his pocket, he forced his pounding blood to calm down. Then he took a deep breath and walked into the Hall, heading straight for Ginny.

She turned round immediately and stood very still, waiting for him. With her red hair and luminous eyes, she had a air of defy about her.

Harry took her hand and walked her out of the Hall.

"I know what you were thinking," he whispered in her ear, as the people around them stared and whistled. "Shall we give it a try?"

HH

Hermione collapsed against her door and slid to the floor – only to find herself facing her mother's head, sitting into the heart. She'd completely forgot that she had to meet her parents in the Floo this evening.

"Mum, this is not a good time, couldn't we –" Hermione started, hoping to cut her off.

"Nonsense, darling," said Mrs Granger is a sweet, dangerous voice. "You're ten minutes late, and there is so much that I want to tell you! We've had the most exciting week. Our neighbours invited us to their _chalet_…"

Hermione tuned off her mother's voice and looked idly at her room. It was so tidy and well-organized: her books on the shelves, ordered by subject and then alphabetically by the author's name; her code-coloured notes on the desk in a neat pile; her wools and her tatting shuttle in a round basket near her bed. This looked indeed like the Head Girl's room. Who could have guessed that said Head Girl spent her time in boy clothes, a Glamour on her, working alongside a dangerous criminal? A murderer with a voice softer than velvet and lips –

"And guess what? We met a family of your kind, sweetie!"

Hermione jumped away from her guilty thoughts and focussed back on her mother's excited face.

"That's nice," she said. "How did you know?"

"Well, we were in a restaurant, and their son spotted us – very fine boy, such good manners. He came to our table and he asked, weren't we Mr and Mrs Granger? And then he said she knew you from school, that he was not a close friend, but, well, everybody did know you, you being top of your year."

Mrs Granger beamed with pride.

Hermione tugged at the chain around her neck and sighed. So another Hogwarts student was living abroad – how long this was going to last?

"In fact, it turned out they live here in Geneva, and we've invited them for dinner, they should be here any moment – now dear, I think it's them, just wait for one minute."

Mrs Granger's head disappeared from the fire – only to be replaced, one instant later, by another. It was a boy's, and it had haunted Hermione's sleep for months. She saw this boy crying over his mother's body – she saw him stare accusingly at her, and then disappearing in a jet of green light…Pale, desperate, his grey eyes closing forever as she tried to reach for him…

But now the boy's face was twisted in contempt and alive with wicked amusement.

"Hello, Mudblood," said Draco Malfoy. "Such a nice place your parents have. My mother can't stand the smell, though."

_A/N Hi everyone! I got Internet back, wow! And this means that, unless I'm too shocked after DH, I'll be able to post other chapters starting next week (I'm taking the week-end off to read the wretched thing…umph, and it's the last one…). So here was a juicy chapter to say sorry from the missing updates. Hope you liked it!_

_Experimental Theology roughly corresponds to physics, and is studied in Lyra's world (from Philip Pullman _His Dark Materials_ trilogy – YOU MUST READ THESE BOOKS, YOU'LL LOVE THEM!!!)_

_Archenland wine: Archeland is a Narnian country, but I'm not sure about the wine, except that it was used in Cassandra Claire fics._

_Lobalug are canon; apparently, Merpeople use them as weapons._

"_Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost" is by Walt Whitman._

Tempus computa!_ Calculate the time!_

Libera!_ Be free!_


	14. Chapter 14

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 14– The Morning After**

November first was a morning of gloom and empty heads. Some people were still recovering from the clandestine heavy drinking of the Hallowe'en feast; others merely lingered in bed, recollecting the ball and staring at the white light out of the window, pushing thoughts of homework away and hidden.

For Harry Potter that light, the first winter light, had a tinge of pink – he thought he could see it, under a cloud's linen, blinking out at him. He and Ginny had made love for the first time, and her warm body was still pressed against him, making him shiver.

As he was gazing with unbelieving delight at her flaming hair sofly moving with her breath, Ginny opened her eyes and smiled at him.

Harry immediately lowered his eyes and shifted a little on the bed, trying to distance himself from her, trying to hide that he was aroused again.

Ginny smiled even wider.

"Good morning," she said softly.

"Good morning," he said, blushing and looking away.

Giggling, Ginny reached up and turned his face towards her, kissing him lighly on the lips. Harry kissed her back and tried to put his arms around her at the same time – but Ginny moved and winced.

"Sorry," said Harry immediately, moving backwards and falling off the bed. "Ouch."

"Are you ok?"

"Yes, I'm…" Harry suddenly realized that he was naked and awkwardly climbed back into the bed, valiantly ignoring Ginny's giggles.

"Why did you move back? You could have broken your wrist by falling like that!"

"Well, you moved, and I thought…" Harry was afraid to finish the sentence. He thought that Ginny hadn't wanted him to touch her, but he didn't want to hear her admit that.

"I was trying to get closer to you," she whispered, amazed. Harry was so different from the other boys she'd been with. She hadn't gone that far with any of them, of course, but all of them had wanted more – to hold her and touch her. Whereas Harry, after his outrageous proposal during the feast, had been very careful and withdrawn – Ginny hoped he was only polite, and not having second thoughts.

Harry shivered and kissed her nose.

"You winced," he pointed out. "I thought I was hurting you."

"Oh, that was from…from before. You weren't hurting me," she said, blushing.

Harry felt a wave of nausea and guilt coursing through his body. He was seventeen; he knew, in theory, that for girls the first time was difficult, but he hadn't expected the pain to linger. Had he done something wrong?

Ginny had still her eyes diverted from him. She was looking out of the window, a content expression on her pointy face.

"Look, that cloud has a pink linen," she said suddenly, and Harry knew everything was ok. They were together. They belonged together. He put his arms around her and leaned on her, watching the sky.

HHH

Hermione was sitting on her bed in her underwear and was looking at the same patch of winter sky. It had no pink whatsoever. It was very white – looking at it was like being blind – and slightly threatening. Winter was there, cold days and colder nights and a war to fight. She didn't know that only a few meters away Harry was completely, utterly happy, feeling more confident that he'd done in his whole life.

Hermione could have done with some confidence and self-respect herself – she had none left. After Draco Malfoy's appearance in her fire, she had headed straight to Dumbledore's office, but had been intercepted by a very shocked Professor McGonagall, who had forced Hermione head-first into her own office. As Hermione cried and bawled about the Malfoys, her Transfiguration professor had tried and failed to intervene; in the end, Hermione had been informed that the Order knew that Draco Malfoy was in Geneva. They'd actually put him there with his mother, because Voldemort had given order to kill the boy and therefore Narcissa Malfoy had abruptly switched sides. In exchange for valuable information, Mrs Malfoy and her son had become Madame Wittkower and little Everard, and were now living peacefully in Switzerland, shopping and eating chocolate and cheese and doing everything a tourist in Switzerland would do.

"So there is no danger for your parents," had said Professor McGonagall, very sternly.

As Hermione clutched her hands around her necklace, trying to find an objection to this, her fingers had found the golden ring Snape had given to her, and she'd thought about telling Professor McGonagall about it. But that would have involved more questioning, and betraying quite a few secrets, and Hermione wasn't quite ready to talk about Snape.

If she'd found out about Malfoy before Snape's kiss, she thought for the hundredth time as she stared out of the window, she would have thrown the ring away. Because Snape had lied to her – she could not believe that he'd been deceived into believing that Draco Malfoy was dead. No, he had lied to her, but why? The ring hadn't done any harm to her, and it wasn't enchanted in any way she could fathom. Nevertheless, before the kiss she would have thrown it away. Now, though…

The memory of it overpowered her and she closed her eyes. There had been such a desperate longing in it…no one had ever wanted her like that before, nobody had ever acted as though she was the last pure well on earth, the last shore in a world drowned by cruel waters. And she'd kissed him back.

_So what are the rules?_ Hermione wondered as she got to her feet and started to pace around the darkened room. _Are we supposed to be together?_

The thought was hilarious, but all alternatives were worse. Hermione imagined to step into the potions lab with a mumbled "Good day, Sir" and to humbly stir some cauldron – and she felt tears into her eyes. But how could they be together? Also, she remembered with a jolt, no matter what had happened in the last months, Snape was still a Death Eater, a prisoner, a man who wanted to set free and join his true master again, and kill and torture.

Realizing she liked him notwithstanding, she finally understood what Charlie had been speaking of, in a sunny morning of what felt like years ago.

She had no experience of this. She had no memory of having loved and lost; of having kissed someone without meaning it; of walking away. She could not do it. She was bound to him.

Wondering if this had been Snape's purpose since the beginning, she plopped down on the bed again. Her eyes fell on the pile of Harry's dirty clothes lying on the floor – and all of a sudden her throat closed and her heart stopped.

Snape had not kissed her at all. He'd kissed Harry.

HHH

Meanwhile, Snape had come to the very same conclusion. He didn't know why he'd done that and who he was thinking of, but he had, in fact, kissed the Potter boy.

_If Lucius finds out about this, I'll never be able to look him in the face again_, he thought, clenching his fists furiously.

He turned towards the window, but the window had been erased from his wall when his office had been searched. Instead of it, someone had hung the painting of a winter landscape, which had been out of place when Snape had first seen it, in August, but was now starting to feel appropriate. Snape wasn't bothered about not having windows in his quarters; he'd never been the claustrophobic type. Nevertheless, the painting had irritated him beyond belief.

In the foreground, a couple of black, naked trees set the tone of the wretched image: a dead forest, gloomy and ghostly. Between the trees stood a huge, broken church. That was all. Most of the time it would snow, and the painting then resembled a grotesque snow dome.

Snape didn't know, and hadn't much wondered, who had chosen the painting, or if it contained a watching mechanism of sorts. It was ill-suited to his quarters, and looked very much like a Muggle painting, since most of the time nothing was moving. And today, watching the broken building did nothing to raise his spirits.

_Dead_, he thought, angrily.

He had long noticed that the Potter boy had his mother's eyes, but that had never aroused him or made him think of Lily. It had, if anything, made him hate the boy even more. How did he dare to be the living proof that scumbag Potter had laid his hands on Lily?

But these last few weeks had been different. There was something…new in the boy.

_War is changing them all_, he mused, turning around and walking to his broken shelves.

Behind him, the snow started to fall gently on the black trees.

HHH

Minister Scrimgeour clenched his hands into fists. He could not afford to hurt this man.

"Something troubling you, Minister?" asked Lucius Malfoy. A note of concern sounded clearly in his haughty accent, but his eyes gleamed malevolently.

Scrimgeour resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As an Auror, he had no respect at all for the man in front of him. But he was also a politician, and he had to try and turn the situation to his advantage. He sat still, watching as Lucius Malfoy took an elegant handkerchief out of his pocket and started to polish his cane.

"But of course, enough is going on to trouble minds these days," Malfoy drawled, casually. "Dreadful, dreadful…"

Scrimgeour could hold his temper no more.

"I don't care how many members of the Wizengamot you've bribed or blackmailed – many of us are still sure that you're guilty. I'm working hard to get you back into Azkaban," he whispered.

"Dear me, Minister, what an unkind statement. Healer Smethwyck was saying just the other day how glad he is to see me back – you see, I'd been invited to St Mungo to inaugurate the new Malfoy Ward for Permanent Curse Victims and-"

"May I remember you, Mr Malfoy, that you are a person on probation? You cannot walk around as you please, playing house, buying hospitals-"

"Healer Smethwyck says that the new ward will be most profitable to your son," said Lucius Malfoy mildly.

Scrimgeour set his jaw. His son, a junior Auror, had been injured by Death Eaters some months previously, and had still not recovered. The new ward, with the most sophisticated equipment and a wide range of priceless potions, had been a ray of hope for him and his wife.

Lucius Malfoy's pale face flushed with pleasure seeing the Minister's discomfort.

"You cannot vanquish me," he said, putting his handkerchief back into his pocket. "But we can negotiate. I would be a powerful ally."

The Minister's eyes glinted angrily.

"It is unfortunate," he said, "that the state of this war is such that we must accept every help we get. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must be destroyed, and his bunch of followers-"

"Must fall down, for in my way it lies," said Malfoy with a false smile. "Save me the rhetoric – I am a busy man."

He stood up, and Scrimgeour remained seated, watching him warily.

"Give me one reason to trust you," he said.

The blond wizard stopped, his hand on the door handle, and turned around. He looked at the Minister for a long time, his cold grey eyes measuring him up. Then he opened the door and disappeared.

HHH

_Chess is played on a square board of eight rows (called_ ranks_ and numbered from 1 to 8) and eight columns (called_ files_ and labeled from a to h) of squares. The colors of the sixty-four squares alternate and are referred to as light squares and dark squares. The pieces are divided into two matching sets, by convention called White and Black. Each player, referred to by the color of his pieces, begins the game with sixteen pieces: one king, one queen, two rooks, two bishops, two knights and eight pawns. The chessboard is placed with a light square at each player's right on the nearest rank, and the pieces are set out on the two ranks closest to each player, as shown in the diagram. Each queen stands on a square of its own color._

Ron passed his fingers on the page. There was enough light to read. Morning was rising. Time to make another knot on his shoe lace. As he straightened up, he wondered again if there was some way out of his situation. He knew where he was, and since how many days he was there, and who had brough him there: surely that must count for something?

But it didn't. There was no door, and the barred window was too tiny even to look through it. Food appeared out of thin air two times a day, and the dishes vanished when he was finished. He had not seen anyone for days. He didn't know why they were keeping him alive.

He worked each day on a new chess problem – it helped with the terror and the boredom of the long, empty hours. He was waiting for the light to come to look at a new board, and his eyes read the magazine foreword again.

_Chess is played on a square board of eight rows (called_ ranks_ and numbered from 1 to 8) and eight columns (called_ files_ and labeled from a to h) of squares. The colors of the sixty-four squares alternate and are referred to as light squares and dark squares. The pieces are divided into two matching sets, by convention called White and Black._

What did the guy mean, 'by convention'? The pieces were called White and Black because they _were_ white and black – well, except Fred and George's set, which was made out of little naked men doing all sort of things to captured little naked women. Even Draco Malfoy's set, which Ron had once saw and immediately disliked ("Don't _you_ look at me, you beggar", had the black knight said to him) was white and black. Ivory and onyx.

_Chess is like life. They are white and black_, he thought idly. _Good and bad. Just like us. It's not a convention, it's true._

But was it? Alone in a cell, Ron didn't feel good at all. He'd envied his brothers furiously, all of them. He'd been ashamed of his family. He'd shouted at his mother, he'd thought his father was stupid. He'd wanted to separate his two best friends when they'd discovered their love for each other.

_I'm good_, he thought, with no effect whatsoever.

"I'm good," he whispered, a felt a little better.

"I'm good," he said, a little louder.

The early winter sun pierced through the clouds and warmed his face.

"I'm good!" he shouted at it.

"Of course you are," said a voice he couldn't recognize. He whipped around, but there was no one in the room. "Now stand still, we want to make sure you won't kill yourself."

Ron was so shocked that he obeyed, and instantly felt a warm wave flood through his body. Someone had put a protective spell on him.

"Why would I want to kill myself?" he asked, staring at the ceiling, from where the voice was coming.

"Because we are going to use you – you will lure Harry Potter out of Hogwarts."

Ron's hands balled into fists.

"I'm never going to do that," he whispered. "Never!"

"This is not for you to decide. You are our bait, our worm, our poisoned apple."

The voice went silent, and Ron knew it would not speak again – the speaker's task was over. He was protected. He slowly sat down again and picked up his chess magazine, but the chessboards zoomed in and out of focus.

_You are our bait, our worm, our poisoned apple._

_A/N _

_WARNING – DH SPOILERS! _

_WARNING – DH SPOILERS!_

_WARNING – DH SPOILERS!_

_WARNING – DH SPOILERS!_

_WARNING – DH SPOILERS!_

_WARNING – DH SPOILERS!_

_WARNING – DH SPOILERS!_

_Hi again to all of you. Just a short chapter (sorry) to show that I'm still here, and that I will continue this story._

_This title refers, of course, more to us than to my fic's characters. The Morning After indeed. I was so wretched after DH that I didn't know if I would finish this story. The dreadful way our Sevvie dies, the fact that he cannot be forgiven (for it seems that JKR has not) for never having learned how to love properly was unbearable. So he was a freak, this we knew already. But he's been trying to amend to his mistakes, and…well, I'll not add another word – I'm sure most of you will recognize this mingled feeling of fury and sadness. About the only thing I've found useful on the subject is a book I read for my studies which stated that sacrifice is not done by the sake of purification and rebirth; it is an action whose only reward is itself – the same concept expressed by Hermione in this fic, that you don't fight for victory or for a reward – you fight because you have to (this is borrowed from Homer). I only hope that there's a happy place somewhere where fictional characters can rest and enjoy a new sunshine._

_The painting in Snape's quarters is _Monastery Graveyard in the Snow_, by Caspar David Friedrich (1817/9)._

_Sexy Lucius Malfoy is quoting Shakespeare (_Macbeth, 1.4.48-51: _"The prince of Cumberland! That is a step / on which is must fall down, or else o'er-leap / For in my way it lies. Stars hide your fires' / Let not night see me black and deep desires"_)_. For truth's sake, I have to admit that I found this quote in _Talented Mr Ripley_ movie – sexier Jude Law writes it down as he goes to his doom._

_Chess introduction is taken from wikipedia._


	15. Chapter 15

**On Oaks and Reeds**

_Disclaimer_

_Anything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling; I am not making money on this and I certainly don't own anything, except the plot and the sacred right to steal from real literature...Oh, wait, I don't even own the whole plot, as this story is an answer to HermySnape's_ Impostor Challenge_ on WIKTT._

_Warnings_

_This story may consider a love relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger at seventeen. If such an idea disturbs you, please don't read it. Also, this fic will be concerned with torture and sexual ambiguity – you'll be warned in advance in the occurrence of graphic descriptions._

**Chapter 15 – The Broken Canvas**

"The time has come, my Lord," said the hooded man.

The hideous man who had once been handsome Tom Riddle didn't look round.

"Go," he hissed quietly. "I need my servant."

The man bowed respectfully disappeared into the darkness.

HHH

"Hermione? Are you there?"

Hermione sat shock still on her bed, barely breathing. Harry's voice was excited and happy – so he'd come back, and he'd found the Water of Wisdom. And the poison was finished, they could start working on the Horcruxes. The thought gave her no joy.

"Come on, I know you're there. Just don't come out in my clothes," he said merrily, and Hermione started to suspect that something was wrong – was he mad, shouting about her Glamour in a corridor?

"Coming," she mumbled, despite herself, and she started to get dressed. Harry was the last person she wanted to see at the moment. Snape had wanted him, Snape had kissed him. She thought he had been hers for a second, but he never had been.

Harry's face was even worse than his voice. He literally shone, he was the boy in the ads eating his artery clogging cereals at six in the morning and still smiling, waving, wide awake. Hermione groaned inwardly.

"You found it?" she asked, and he looked confused for a moment. "The Water," she clarified, bemused.

"Oh, that – yes, we have to work on that," he said distractedly, rearranging his glasses.

"Harry, what's the matter?"

Harry looked around, but the corridor outside the Head Girl's room was empty. Still, he hesitated – one part of him didn't want to share his night with Ginny.

"I…" he said in the end. "Ginny wants to be with me."

"She too?" moaned Hermione, before she could stop herself. Lurid images of Harry, Ginny and Snape eating chocolate hearts and looking lovingly at each other crossed her mind.

"What do you mean, she too?" said Harry, laughing. "Come on, we'll be late for breakfast."

As they walked down the stairs together, he filled her in with everything that had happened in Bath. She was, as ever, a very good audience, and gasped at all the right moments.

"And what about the poison?" he murmured, as they stepped into the Great Hall.

Hermione blushed and tried to push her hair in front of her face – but of course, she didn't have enough hair for that.

"It's finished. Speaking of which, could you go and collect it from Snape's rooms?" she asked, acting on a sudden instinct. She couldn't bear to see the man today, she just couldn't.

"No problem," said Harry cheerfully. "Has he been giving you a hard time?"

Hermione was spared the need to answer by the appearance of Ginny, sitting composedly at the breakfast table, waiting for them. Well, for Harry at least.

"Good morning," she said, a sparkle in her eyes.

Harry smiled and sat down opposite her. There was something very strange going on – Harry had never looked so stupid, and Ginny was just…shining from inside.

"Harry…you will remember to fetch…to fetch it?" said Hermione tentatively, staring at the two of them.

"Of course," he said absently.

In fact, Harry did remember about the poison. He thought about it as he was walking hand in hand with Ginny back to Gryffindor tower; and once, very briefly, when they were kissing; and again, as a nagging task, when they were sprawled in bed together, still clothed but flushed and giggling. It was eight in the evening before Harry found the time to walk down to the dungeons. He was too happy to suspect that two people had waited eagerly for him to do so, Hermione in the cold library and Snape pacing up and down in front of the awful painting.

When he arrived at the dungeons' door, Harry could still feel the warmth of Ginny's lips on his face. He paused and thought whether he should knock, but decided against it. Snape was a prisoner, why should he bother? Harry smiled. Snape a prisoner, the poison done, the Water of Wisdom in his trunk – everything was well.

Hermione watched the little dot labelled 'Harry Potter' walk into the dungeons and her eyes darted immediately to the 'Severus Snape' dot, which was moving quickly towards it. Her paper ("Burning Hexes – How to Heal Them") lay forgotten on the desk. She felt sick. She watched the two dots and saw in her mind Snape's discoloured eyes shine with desire, and it was not for her, and she could not bear it. She knew that Harry would never yield to it, but he would still see it, and he would understand what had happened. She would not have it.

Blindly, Hermione stood up and ran, outside the quiet, darkening library, through cold corridors and silent portraits, hoping and praying that she was not too late; but too late for what, she could not say.

Behind her, the Marauders Map followed her footsteps for everyone to see them.

HHH

Harry stepped quietly into the dark lab.

"_Lumos_," he said.

The place was heavy with Snape's presence. Harry had not forgotten his professor's taunts and tortures, and the unwilling help of the sharp-witted boy he'd been, the Half-Blood Prince. As he walked forwards, he could recognize the place that used to be his own, at the front of the class; he could still hear Karkaroff's low whisper and see Snape's eyes, flashing with anger.

All this didn't matter, though. Harry was love drunk, and he found in his heart that Snape's cruelty and Dumbledore's blindness at hiring him were unimportant. He felt at peace. He even had a smile on his lips.

Standing on the threshold of his private chambers, Snape saw the boy's foolish smile and his eyes hardened. He'd thought he wouldn't dare to come, but he had. Snape felt uneasy, but he knew he had nothing to apologize for – the boy had responded, his mouth had been hot, his skin flushed. All day Snape had played with the idea of seducing him – didn't he deserve it? Hadn't he worked for years in this ghastly school, for nothing? Hadn't he served his master well?

But as Harry Potter glanced dreamily at cauldrons stored neatly on the shelves, Snape couldn't feel any heat, any desire. Another reward would slip through his fingers. He must wait. There would be no truth, only games and plays.

"Why, good evening, Potter," he said venomously from the shadows.

Harry jumped and looked around, his wand ready.

"Professor?" he said, hesitantly. He didn't want to use the man's title anymore, but it seemed unnatural to call him 'Snape' to his face. Once a student, always a student.

"Don't you threaten me, boy. Lower your wand."

Harry took a step towards him. With his own wand light in the face, he couldn't see his opponent.

"I've come for the poison," he said.

"Your ability to state the obvious is, as always, charming."

Harry was determined not to get angry, and he forced himself to smile.

"So, where is it?"

Snape turned and walked into his chambers, and Harry followed him, keeping his wand on him. As he walked through the room for the first time, Harry was shocked to see the state of destruction of it. Of course, he knew that Aurors and Order members had searched it, but it still disturbed it that they had not been put right, and that Snape himself had done nothing in the months he'd been living there. Even the books were still upside down on the floor, and the fireplace looked as if it had not been used in a long time. Forgetting where he was, Harry moved to peer through the destroyed door on the right side of the living room. It was Snape's bedroom. The bed, a simple, monastic single bed, had been wrecked, the battered green and silver sheets thorn. It looked like an unwanted and unloved room, and it was clear it had not been used for months. Harry wondered vaguely where Snape had been sleeping. Turning around, he saw that Snape was staring icily at him and felt his cheeks redden.

"You are still a child and I am still your superior. Don't you dare to presume that last night has changed anything," Snape hissed angrily. The casual wandering of Potter through his quarters was unnerving – did the boy think that because of one kiss he could come and go as he pleased?

Harry was rooted to the spot, utterly shocked. He had long suspected that Snape could read minds, and he'd had the certainty of it in his fifth year, but still – didn't one need eye contact for Legilimency? But then again, Lupin always said that Snape was very skilled. He'd never felt so humiliated in his whole life. It had been bad enough that Snape had seen his childhood misery and his kiss with Cho Chang – but thinking that the surly, mean double spy in front of him could see he and Ginny…that he could see Ginny naked…

"You don't know anything about last night!" Harry shouted, furious and embarrassed. "Shut up about it!"

Snape's eyes glittered dangerously.

"You think you are special, Potter? You know nothing."

"I don't think I'm special! But I know that last night was special! I'm sure of it!"

Snape kept his eyes on the boy, hiding his unease. He'd waited fifteen years to hear Lily say these words – surely Fate was not so cruel as to put them in the mouth of her son?

"And why would you?" he whispered, his hand instinctively moving to his wand pocket, which, of course, was empty.

Harry hesitated, but what he was thinking blurted out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Because it was love. True love. And you know nothing of it."

Harry saw Snape's face becoming even paler than usual. The man in front of him could have been a corpse – there was no blood in his cheeks, no audible breath. From the look of mingled incredulity and shock in his pale, gleaming eyes Harry knew that he'd finally, unwilling succeeded what he'd been trying to do for six years. He had mortally offended his former professor. More, he had hurt him. Harry shuffled his feet and turned around. He didn't want to see what he'd done. He forgot that Snape was a murderer and his enemy – for a moment, he saw him as the kid he'd been, alone and forlorn, and he was deeply ashamed of himself.

Snape watched as the boy flushed and turned to look at the awful winter landscape, but in his mind the boy had turned into Lily. Lily saying exactly the same thing to him on the eve of her marriage to James. Snape had contradicted her then; and his mouth had moved of a fraction, ready to contradict her son now. But he found he couldn't. The boy was right.

As they both stood there, trying to avoid each other's gaze, the door clicked and Hermione stepped into the room. She stood on the threshold, uncertainly looking at both in turn, but before she could say anything an explosion resounded over their heads, immediately followed by Professor McGonagall's harsh voice.

"The castle is under attack. I repeat, the castle is under attack. All doors will be sealed. Stay where you are until a senior member of the staff comes to fetch you."

Snape and Harry understood the meaning of this at once, and they both ran to the door, pushing Hermione roughly aside as they tried to prevent the it from closing. As Hermione steadied herself on her feet, she saw that they'd been too late. She looked a Harry for orders, but he was swearing under his breath and didn't look back at her.

Snape walked to the panting on the wall and leaned his head towards it, as though he was trying to hear something. Hermione felt a creepy sensation in her hands – Snape couldn't stand there, he could not be allowed to – why she didn't know. She drew her wand and moved towards him, but as she reached him Snape stepped hastily back and threw himself to the ground, instinctively taking her down with him.

The canvas ripped as a jet of black light blasted through it, and they all knew the voice crying in delight beyond what now was a hole in the wall. It belonged to Lucius Malfoy.

Snape stood up quickly and raised a hand to rip the canvas. He had always liked being a scholar and had lived most of his life inside, but the smell of fresh air was intoxicating. He looked through the hole and saw Lucius hovering in front of it, his expensive broom perfectly steady and his silver mask slightly raised.

There was a cry of rage behind him and Harry pushed him hard in the shoulder, trying to aim at Malfoy.

"Move away from there, you fool!" Snape shouted at Lucius, and lowered his arm, hard, on Harry's wand arm, causing his hex to miss. Harry turned to face him instead, but Hermione cried 'No!' and both man and boy turned despite themselves to stare at her.

And in one moment, Snape understood. He saw Hermione's anguished gaze, her soft lips quivering with anxiety, and everything was clear in his mind – Potter's sudden skill in Potions, the grace of his movements, his interest in his books. He was so relieved that he quirked a smile at her.

"Keep it safe," he said, as Harry's eyes darted in confusion from one to the other. As he was looking at Hermione's face, trying to read her most peculiar expression, he saw it change to sheer terror – he felt Snape push past him – the man had thrown himself out of the window – but he was not falling, he was running on thin air towards Lucius Malfoy's broomstick.

The sight was so incredible that Harry felt his wand arm lower. Dumbledore's words rang in his mind. _You will face magic during your quest the like of which you have never seen before. _Snape ran very fast, his cloak billowing behind him, his slim silhouette outlined by a fire in the Forbidden Forest. His steps were unnaturally long. He seemed unsubstantial, as unreal as a shadow.

Even Malfoy whistled in admiration as he lowered his mask on his face. His grey eyes locked with Harry's as Snape jumped on the broom behind him, and in the blink of an eye they were gone, swallowed by the night.

HHH

Silently, Hermione came to stand beside him, her eyes shining with tears. She put one hand to the edge of the canvas, trying to straighten it up, or perhaps simply leaning on it for support.

"There's something written on this," Harry said, out of the blue. He had noticed her tears and didn't know what to think of it. And he surely didn't want to talk about it.

"_Lumos_," said Hermione wearily, as the Forest fire subsided. Centaurs were spreading on the grounds. They looked no more than dots from were they were standing.

Her wand tip revealed an Oriental writing on the back of the broken canvas.

"What's this?" she said, amazed.

"Chinese?" Harry offered, glad to see that she had her usual curious, determined look.

"_Traduce_," she said, carefully putting her wand on the fabric.

Black words shone for a moment in front of their eyes.

_Walking, walking, I plod endlessly_

_Along the road that leads me away from you. _

_More than ten thousands _li_ separate us,_

_For you and me, the horizon is otherwise._

_Long and laborious are routes,_

_Nor are we sure of seeing each other again._

_The Mongolian horses are harnessed to the North Wind._

_Birds from the land of Hiu are perched on the branches of the South._

_And I am_

The writing turned back to its original ideograms.

"Do that again," said Harry.

"It's a poem," stated Hermione, amazed, as she repeated the spell.

They both read it a second time. Hermione felt her throat close. Snape's face swam in front of her eyes – his amused smile, his final words. _Keep it safe_.

"There's another part to it," she said in dismay. "Where is it?"

Harry put his hand on the canvas as the writing changed. The night wind blew through the hole, and they both shivered.

"The second part is lost," he said quietly. "The canvas is broken."

Hermione stared blankly at it. Harry was right. _For you and me, the horizon is otherwise_. But what came after that?

"The enemy has fled. You are now safe," boomed Professor McGonagall's voice over them, and the door opened with a soft click.

_A/N Hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if it's a bit short. It was tremendous fun to write. _

_The poem is a real one, which, alas, I did not write. His author is an unknown poet who lived in China during the Han dynasty (206-220 AD). There is a second part to it, but I'll save it for later because I'm wicked. The Mongolian were, of course, the enemy the Chinese most feared; the Chinese wall was built to keep them out of the country. Their horses were renowned for their speed and endurance. The __**li**__里__, lǐ) is a traditional Chinese unit of distance, which has varied considerably over time but now has a standardized length of 500 meters or half a kilometer (c. 1640 feet). At the time of our author, though, it was about 80 m._


End file.
